


Room to Breathe

by Bethwriteswords



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Anorexia, Dead May Parker (Spider-Man), Depressed Peter Parker, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt/Comfort, I do what I want, Not Canon Compliant, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker is a Mess, Protective Tony Stark, Self-Harm, Tony Stark Has A Heart
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:40:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 27,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25509121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bethwriteswords/pseuds/Bethwriteswords
Summary: It's been a year since Aunt May died and Peter Parker is starting to self-destruct again. He can't quite bring himself to care. Fortunately, Tony is more perceptive than he looks.
Relationships: Peter Parker & Ned Leeds, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 63
Kudos: 392





	1. Doing just fine

**Author's Note:**

> TW: 
> 
> Graphic injury, SH, cutting, depression, suicide, panic attacks
> 
> If you're suffering with any of the issues mentioned above or in the tags I can't stop you reading this - but if you do, check in with yourself before and after! Look after yourself, feel free to reach out to me through here (I promise I care and will do everything in my power to help you), you are so so precious. 
> 
> Reaching out for help saved my life and gave me hope when I thought there was none - Shout! is a UK based text hotline you can get in touch with to talk anything through.  
> Text: 85258
> 
> I don't know of a similar service in the US (if there is one comment below!!) - but the number for the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline is 1-800-273-8255 (TALK)
> 
> Be safe <3

Long sleeves in July. It surprised Peter how easy it was to get away with. Turns out most people were too wrapped up in their own lives to notice one Spiderman’s fashion choices, questionable as they may seem. Plus, Peter was used to hiding an entire secret identity; a few torn-up patches of skin were nothing in comparison. That’s what he told himself: nothing. So what if the cuts were only getting deeper, if even his enhanced healing couldn't fade the scars that littered his arms, if this was a ten year habit that Peter couldn't help but think might kill him someday. It’s nothing compared to what he faced every evening on the grimy, dimly-lit streets of Queens. 

Peter had seen things that would make your blood run cool, he knew what sort of things human beings were capable of doing to each other, every goddamn day. Whilst the other avengers raced around foiling glamorous alien plots and super-villains and technology that looked like it came from Ronald Reagan’s wet dream, Peter saw the dirt under the city’s fingernails.   
It took its toll, rinsing the blood out of his suit and dropping kids off at police stations. Knowing the price of ruining a life was sometimes no more than a slap on the wrist, a month in jail if you were lucky. He wasn't bitter, but sometimes the tension of it all built up until he couldn't breathe, until he needed a release, even if the only relief came from the pen knife he had to sharpen every week. 

Peter sat in the middle of the bathroom floor, watching a thin line of blood trace it’s way down his arm and drip off his elbow. It made a tiny splash on the white tiles, joining the cluster of scarlet droplets congealing there. The sight was transfixing, somehow oddly soothing. It felt like resetting a pressure gauge, making his insides feel less hot and jangly. They looked a little like teardrops, but Peter felt so mixed up nowadays that cutting is easier than crying most the time.   
The door to the bathroom was shut tight, but there was no danger of anyone walking in on him. Not since May died. It had been a full year since she’d been diagnosed, and approximately eleven months and two weeks since the cancer that had taken root in her brain also took her life. Of all the dangers Spiderman could have saved her from, the universe had picked the one he couldn’t, and now he was on his own.   
That wasn’t quite true. He lived alone, unable to let go of the shitty apartment where the two of them had lived for most of Peter’s life, but he only really slept there. Tony had seen to that, fixing Peter an entire suite in the Avenger’s Tower before they’d even had a funeral and insisting he saw the kid as often as both their schedules allowed. He had the rest of the Avengers, who’d collectively decided to adopt him way before May. He even had MJ and Ned in school, who’d somehow managed to be completely unfazed by his extra-curricular activities. It wasn’t like he was actively suffering all the time. It was just sometimes, on evenings like this, after days like this one, he felt like if he didn’t do something to get it all out he might do something worse. 

He’d seen a psychologist for a while: a blonde, softly-spoken woman named Anna, who Aunt May had hired when Peter stopped eating that time in 6th grade. She’d been kind, if sometimes uncomfortably perceptive, and when Peter had broken down and told her about Skip she hadn’t looked surprised, only sad, and understanding. She’d probably saved his life, he could admit to himself now, but even she hadn’t been able to break him of the habit. He’d been too convinced he had it under control, that his cutting was just superficial, that he could stop if he really wanted to. Five years on he’d realised it wasn’t as easy as he thought, and he still didn’t want to stop.

Cleaning up the blood was becoming troublingly routine, and he let out a heavy sigh as he pressed the gauze to his arm, holding it tight. The blood soaked through quicker than it used to, and Peter knew anyone else would probably need stitches. With his advanced healing though the bleeding was already slowing, and within minutes he felt comfortable enough to wrap a bandage around it and call it a day. His blood turned the water pink as he washed his hands, and he watched almost regretfully as it ran clear again. The urge to cut hadn't disappeared, but he was running out of space on his brutalised arms and didn’t want to risk scarring another area. Just weeks ago on a mission he’d had to reset his own dislocated shoulder, hiding the injury from the team for fear of Bruce, their go-to medic, somehow finding out.   
Taking a deep breath, he dried his hands and shut off the tap, casting a last glance over the floor to make sure he hadn’t missed anything and setting the penknife back in the cabinet. He was exhausted, yet still paradoxically wired from the Spiderman shift he’d just finished. A glance at the clock told him it was late late, but when he lay in bed he couldn't sleep. His phone had pinged a couple of hours ago and now he picked it up, suppressing a yawn and squinting at the screen.   
Unsurprisingly it was MJ; that girl kept such nocturnal hours it was miraculous she ever made it to school on time.  
‘What are you doing tomorrow night?’ She knew he kept weird hours with his Spiderman shifts - when she said night he knew she meant the word very literally.   
‘Not a lot’. He liked that they kept their messages short and sweet - they were both so crap with their phones this was a necessary compromise. He put his phone down again, not expecting even MJ to be up at this time. It was close to 3.30 and the neighbourhood was as quiet as it ever got. It dinged again almost as soon as the thought crossed his mind, and a shadow of a smile grazed his lips.   
‘What the FUCK are you doing still awake?’ He could virtually hear her outrage through the phone, and the idea made him smile properly. Once he’d worked up the courage to ask her out the two had settled into an easy, comfortable rhythm that made him wonder why he hadn’t done it sooner.   
‘Can’t sleep’, he answered honestly.   
‘Poor baby. Wanna do my AP physics hw instead?’ He didn’t get a chance to answer before his phone was buzzing and he picked it up immediately, relieved to have the distraction from his own thoughts. Before he’d had a chance to so much as say hello, MJ started talking. ‘Okay, question 1. If an object is rolling down a 45 degree hill at a steady velocity…’  
Peter was asleep by question 5. 

***

He managed a pitiful two hours of sleep before jolting awake early the next morning, gasping out of a nightmare and taking several steadying breaths before rolling out of bed. The heavy dread that pulled at his shoulders urged him to stay curled up and hide from the world, but today anxiety had the edge. He called that a win.   
Stripping his t-shirt off, Peter headed to the bathroom to inspect yesterday’s damage. Peeling off the bandage on his arm set a couple of cuts bleeding again, but mostly they were already scabbing over. They’d scar in a day or two and be fine, he decided methodically, used to this. Checking his cuts in the morning had become as much a part of his routine as showering and brushing his teeth. Catching sight of his arms in the mirror, he paused only long enough to rub bio-oil onto older, itching scars. 

School, by this point, was little more than a formality for Peter. His grades were high enough that he could afford to screw around and still manage to pass everything spectacularly, to the irritation of both his peers and teachers. The only class he actively skipped was PE - a habit he blamed on his superpowers that was more down to his reluctance to change in front of anyone. Tony let him get away with it on the condition that he come and see him for the hour he would have spent running around a sweaty high school gym. 

Gym was third period on Fridays, meaning that, including lunch period immediately afterwards, today Peter had a full two hours to hang out at Stark tower. MJ and Ned made no effort to hide their intense jealousy, and Peter stuck his tongue out cheekily at them as he vaulted the fence behind the main buildings.   
‘Tell Mr Adams I said hi!’, he yelled over his shoulder as he jogged away.  
‘Fuck you Parker!!’

He was out of breath by the time he let himself into the lab, choosing to put that down to being out of shape rather than the weight that had begun to slip off his already lithe frame in recent weeks. It wasn't that he was trying to starve, he told himself, just that he didn’t have time to eat properly, what with the hero stuff and everything. It was under control, at any rate. A tiny voice at the back of his head reminded him that maybe under his control wasn't the best state for it to be in, but he shrugged that off.  
Tony’s face lit up as he saw him and he dropped the tools he was holding to pull Peter into a tight hug. ‘How’re you doing kid?’ Peter ignored the slight jab of pain that came from Tony’s embrace rubbing the cuts on his arm, grinning back at his mentor.   
‘Good. Aced that biology exam.’ Stark smiled proudly, ruffling the kid’s hair.   
‘Knew you would.’ Peter’s grades were the only things about him Tony didn’t worry about, if he was honest with himself. The kid was bright - too bright for his own good most the time - but since his Aunt had died he hadn’t been quite himself. He supposed that was perfectly natural; the kid had lost every person on the earth who meant a thing to him after all, but a tiny voice at the back of his mind quietly wondered if there wasn't something else as well.   
Pushing that aside, he cleared away some of the detritus littering his desktop and opened up his most recent project. 

As often happened in Tony’s lab, the two lost track of time completely, and by the time Tony next glanced at his watch the school day was long over. Neither of them felt too bad about it; for Peter, the relief of thinking about nothing but the shapes and numbers unfolding in front of him was easily worth the black mark on his attendance record. 

‘Just don’t tell Pepper,’ Tony turned to Peter as they headed back up the stairs, suddenly aware of the disappearing daylight, ‘she’ll kill me if she finds out we did it again. Stay for dinner?’ Peter had to work hard to keep the panic off his face at the casual question, mind already working at 100 miles an hour to churn out excuses not to. The lie slipped off his tongue with a practised smoothness though. 

‘Nah, that’s okay, I said I’d meet MJ for a bit.’ They reached the door and Tony raised a suggestive eyebrow at him. Peter flushed. ‘Shut up!’ Tony raised his hands in mock innocence.

‘I didn’t say anything! Look after yourself kid.’ He resisted the urge to tell him to eat something, reminding himself that Peter was a sixteen year old and completely capable of taking care of himself. God knows Tony had been pretty damn self-sufficient by the time he was Peter’s age. Peter waved as he headed down the street, shaking his head as Tony called after him.   
‘Don’t do anything I would!’. 

Away from Tony’s, the smile slid from Peter’s face like a shadow over the moon. He had no intention of seeing MJ later, hyper-aware of the kind of violence that played out on the streets every night, every moment that Spiderman wasn’t there to stop it. He had no intention of eating anything either, if he was honest with himself. It’s getting bad again. The thought flicked across his mind before he could push it away and he physically shook his head to clear it. The eating hadn’t been bad since… since Skip.   
A sudden tidal wave of memory slammed into him, stopping him in his tracks. 

Flashes of hands and faces and a dark room and ‘there’s a good boy’-

Peter stumbled to the nearest alleyway, retching violently, shuddering, doubled up with the weight of everything that happened. It had been a long time since his last flashback and it took him by surprise, tears springing to his eyes as tremors threatened to force him to his knees, breath coming in short, fast gasps. The panic attack was less unexpected, though equally unpleasant, and Peter sank into a crouch to let the thing run its course. Voices in his head screamed at him to get moving, at least put the suit on, doesn't he know there are people dying! But for the moment he couldn't move, paralysed and terrified and missing May more than he ever had.   
His heart raced in his chest so fast it scared him, and he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to slow his frantic breathing to a manageable level, the way his therapist had taught him years ago. He felt pathetic - he was supposed to be a hero after all - and here he was in New York’s most disgusting alleyway, barely holding it together. 

The fear ebbed gradually, eventually leaving nothing but a fierce headache in its place. Peter sat heavily, leaning against the rough brick behind him and dragging a shaking hand over his tearstained face. It was getting harder to convince himself that this was sustainable, for all his best efforts. Weakly, he pushed himself to his feet, taking a deep breath and throwing a hand against the wall to steady himself as his head spun alarmingly. 

He was fine, he’d be fine.

Ducking behind an over-filled dumpster, he pulled the spider-suit out of his rucksack with trembling fingers, shivering in the cool night air as he changed. Relief flooded through him as he slipped the mask over his head and stretched the fatigue out of his aching muscles. Scarred, broken Peter Parker could fade away, and in his place stood a hero.


	2. This is starting to hurt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter's various hurts are getting harder to hide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading so far!!!! Pls do like and comment, it means the whole world <3

He didn’t eat all weekend. It wasn’t necessarily intentional, he told himself, it was just that he hadn’t had time. With the warmer months attracting plane-loads of tourists to the Big Apple, the streets were busier than ever, and crime increased correspondingly. In a single day, Peter returned over 100 stolen wallets, leaving multiple muggers to the more formal justice of the NYPD. On top of that,an especially pissed off gang member had launched a serrated knife at him, barely grazing the top of his thigh but tearing an impressive hole through his suit. The cut had healed in hours, but sewing was not a strength of Peter’s, and the repair had kept him up late. 

Coupled with hanging out with MJ - who usually tolerated Spiderman admirably but made the salient point that even Tony Stark made time for Pepper - and he’d just been too busy to buy groceries, and eating out wasn't exactly in his price range.

He knew very well these excuses wouldn't fly with Tony: the billionaire wasn’t exactly frugal, and if he’d had any idea how dire Peter’s financial straits really were the kid would never have wanted for anything ever again. It was only Peter’s still-raw grief for his aunt that stopped the man forcing him to move into Stark tower with the rest of the Avengers.

It was more than mere pride that stopped Peter reaching out though; more than anything he felt he didn’t deserve to ask for help. Things weren’t _that bad_ after all: he had a roof over his head, which was more than so many of the people he encountered every day.

Besides, every time he sat down to try and eat horrors would crowd his head: Aunt May wasting away while he watched, helpless, Uncle Ben bleeding out in a crime that had been all too preventable, the empty faces he saw every day, victims, perpetrators, the whole bloody cycle. The innocent and the guilty and the miles of grey between them. He had to stay in constant motion or it all made him sick.

Hunger made him dull, his brain foggy, took the sting from his thoughts. It just so happened that what was good for Peter Parker wasn’t so great for his alter ego.

****

Peter grimaced as he slipped back into his room, lowering his battered body gingerly through the open window and dumping his rucksack in its customary spot on the floor. Behind him the first cool strands of daylight were just beginning to creep across the sky, casting a wan light across the walls.

He winced as he pulled off his mask, dried blood sticking it to the side of his forehead. A desperate would-be burglar had hurled a hammer in his direction when he’d surprised him breaking into a block of flats. Any other day his senses would have kicked in and warned him with time to spare, but hunger and exhaustion had blunted them, and he’d ducked fractionally too late. 

A glance in the mirror told him the wound wasn't serious, and had stopped bleeding hours ago, but it was large enough to scar, and he pulled a face. Another one for the collection. He headed to the bathroom and stepped into the shower before pulling off the rest of the suit, letting the rush of cold water wash both him and it clean. Spider-ing wasn’t exactly a well-paid gig, and the odd tutoring job barely covered his rent; hot water was a luxury he hadn’t been able to afford for months. Besides, he told himself, cold water was better for bloodstains anyway.

He was still shivering when he made it to school two hours later, hands stuffed deep into his pockets both for warmth and to hide the unhealthy blue tinge at the base of his fingernails. Ned met him at the gate and for the hundredth time Peter thanked whatever deity had made his best friend one of the most comically oblivious people he’d ever met.

“What up Spiderman!?”

“Shut up Ned!”

The kid chattered at 100 miles an hour as they walked through the gates, jumping wildly between topics without waiting for a reply, faintly reminding Peter of a chipmunk on speed. He did his best to put on a show of normality, laughing and interjecting at the right places, but couldn't help but slump in relief when their homeroom teacher called for silence. 

There was no gym class today, but Tony had texted telling him to swing by after school anyway (pun fully intended), so he had that to look forward to. In the meantime, with their first set of major exams rapidly approaching, his whole year group buzzed with the kind of manic energy only the sadistic pressures of academia could incite.

Peter represented one of his mediocre school’s only hopes for a shining set of results, the consequence of this being he found himself under unusually intense scrutiny from his teachers, just when he least needed it.

The only exception to this was Peter’s ageing Chemistry professor. MJ and Ned had once made a game of testing the upper limits of his apathy and discovered with some glee that, short of a major fire, virtually nothing could entice him to pull his eyes away from an impressively tattered copy of Gulliver’s Travels.

Today, Peter had taken full advantage of this and, having been unquestioningly granted a key to the ‘dangerous chemicals’ cupboard at the back of the room, set about tinkering with the formula for his web fluid. Specifically, he wanted to make it a little stronger. A troubling number of New York’s most wanted had started carrying specially sharpened blades for the lone purpose of slicing through his webs. While this had yet to cause him any real problems, the way his reflexes were looking at the moment made him all too aware of the possibility of a painful fall.

Ned settled happily into the seat next to him, watching imploringly until Peter sighed and handed him a vial and told him to find a Bunsen burner. As they worked, some of the heaviness lifted from Peter’s shoulders. He found himself joking with Ned like old times, ribbing him about the girl he’d befriended on their last school trip and cracking up over the monstrous solid gloop they managed to synthesise on their first few attempts.

By the end of the lesson Peter had something he was pretty happy with, resolving to take it to Tony later on and test it out, something close to contentment heating his chest.

The unfamiliar feeling was fleeting. By the time the end of the day rolled around the sleepless nights had caught up to him, and he felt almost drunk on exhaustion. Combined with the fact that he’d skipped lunch again on the pretence of needing to revise, drifting between classes felt like wading through treacle. Even Ned had twigged something was up by last period, leaning across to whisper to him when the teacher was facing the board.

“Peter, you okay? You look tired.” Peter blinked a few times before replying, snapped out of his daze. He flashed a smile at his friend, fighting a yawn.

“I’m good man, busy weekend.” He gave Ned a significant look, relying on his friend’s admiration of Spiderman to field any concern; him and MJ knew better than to ask for details on what exactly he got up to in the suit. It worked - Ned nodded sagely and dropped it, and Peter felt a pang of guilt for lying to him. Not that it hadn't been a busy weekend, but he’d definitely felt better after worse ones. His state was more down to the fact that he hadn’t eaten in almost four days.

With his advanced metabolism, even on a restful day Peter needed to consume close to four times the number of calories a regular kid his age did just to keep functioning. With all the running about he’d been doing, coupled with the lack of sleep, he was running on less than fumes right now.

His head spun worryingly as he stood up, and he took his time packing his books into his rucksack to give the spell time to pass, breathing slowly. Ned was conveniently distracted by their English teacher, stumbling over some excuse for a missed piece of homework, and Peter leant heavily on the desk for a moment. Hearing the conversation finish he straightened, flashing his best friend an amused grin.

“Caught, huh?”

Peter hadn’t done the homework either; he was just a better liar. Ned stuck his tongue out at him and followed him out the door.

Happy was waiting at the bottom of the road, looking unimpressed.

“Parker, why do I have to wait a hundred years for you to get out the damn classroom? Not a babysitter.”

Peter bid Ned a hasty goodbye and jogged to the man’s side, shooting him what he hoped was a winning smile. “Sorry Happy! I had to wait for Ned-“

“Yeah I don’t actually care, get in the car kid.” Happy rolled his eyes, suppressing a smile as Peter skittered past him and swung into the passenger seat, launching into an explanation that mentioned something about an essay he’d forgotten. Stark’s bodyguard was fond of the kid, though you’d have better luck extracting blood from a stone than that confession from him. If anything, Peter was more talkative than usual on the car ride to Stark tower, scarcely pausing for breath as he detailed the minutiae of his day. He did this partially because annoying Happy was one of the genuine great joys of his life, and partially in a wild attempt to distract the man from noticing anything different about him.

The plan was successful; the man practically threw him out the car, making a big show of shaking his head and muttering under his breath as he drove away.

Stretching an old ache out of his shoulder, Peter yawned as he wandered into the stylish lobby of Stark tower. FRIDAY greeted him as he entered.

“Hello, Peter Parker.” As he always did, Peter waved in the skyward direction he always imagined the AI living, though he knew she was far less tangible than that.

“Hey FRIDAY! Where’s Tony?”

“Mister Stark is currently in a meeting. He requests that you make yourself at home, and he will join you shortly.” Part of Peter was relieved that he’d have some time to himself before he had to resume the Peter-is-okay charade.

“Cool, thanks FRIDAY!” He took the elevator to Tony’s suite rather than the more communal Avengers floor, too tired to contemplate seeing the rest of the team right now and knowing FRIDAY would tell his mentor where he was. He needed coffee, he decided, unless he wanted to risk Tony walking in on him fast asleep. Fortunately Tony was equally of the opinion that coffee was slightly more important than oxygen, and jars of the stuff littered the kitchen countertops. Peter picked one at random, checking the label carefully to make sure it wasn’t any of Pepper’s decaf stuff before boiling the kettle and making a pot.

He leant absent-mindedly against the counter as it brewed, gaze unfocused, head aching fiercely. Reaching up to touch the gash on his temple, he frowned and pulled out his phone, flipping it onto the selfie camera. Rather than the pink scar he had expected to see, the wound had barely healed at all, and was ringed by a violent purple bruise. No wonder Ned had seemed concerned.

He usually healed so quickly he barely paid any attention to the accumulated cuts and bruises he always picked up on Spiderman shifts, but now he rolled up his sleeves, inspecting his forearms carefully. Fingerprint bruises from that mugger who’d tried to grab him; long scrapes down his elbows where he’d swung clumsily past a wall; even the straight, clean cuts in the crook of his arm - all were starkly visible against his pale skin. He swallowed hard and shoved his sleeves down, glancing around, suddenly afraid of someone coming in and seeing. The fact that his enhanced healing was compromised scared him far more than he liked to admit, even to himself; his ability to heal in less than half the time it took a regular person was one of the reasons Tony let him keep going out as Spiderman at all.

He briefly considered pulling on an oversized beanie to hide the head injury but dismissed the thought just as quickly - Tony was a busy man but he wasn’t stupid, and Peter didn’t want to give him any indication that he might be hiding something. Instead, he took a deep breath and poured himself a coffee, drinking it scalding hot in an attempt to kickstart his slow brain. He had to think of a more recent excuse for the injury than last night’s patrol. Tony knew exactly how quickly he healed and if he suspected something was wrong with his abilities he’d definitely want to investigate.

He barely had time to frame the thought before FRIDAY’s voice echoed above him, making him jump.

“Mister Stark’s meeting has finished, Peter. He should be on his way shortly.”

Peter was glad of the warning, taking a deep breath and topping up the coffee in the pot, hopping up to sit on the countertop and cradling the mug in his lap to warm his unseasonably cold hands. The marble surface felt harder than usual beneath him, and he shifted uncomfortably. The elevator dinged less than five minutes later and Tony’s familiar footsteps strode across the floor, voice echoing from the hallway before Peter could even see him.

“Honey, I’m home!” Peter grinned and jumped off the countertop, setting his mug down carefully to give his spinning head time to clear as Tony entered the room. For all his anxiety about Tony guessing something was wrong, he felt himself relax as the man swept him into a tight hug.

“Hey Tony,” he greeted him happily, “how was your meeting?” His older man pulled a face.

“Typical SHIELD bullshit. They want to play with my stuff, I don’t feel like sharing.” A shadow passed across his face, chased away like a cloud across the sun as he met Peter’s serious gaze. “It’ll be fine, kid, the other Avengers are on my side with this one.”

Peter smiled wryly. “That’s a nice change.”

Tony laughed and poured himself a mug of coffee, refilling Peter’s as he did so. The fierce feud that had broken out between him and Steve Rogers had long since blown over, and it was a relief to be able to laugh about something that at the time had felt apocalyptic. Turning back to Peter, Tony’s smile faltered, brows knitting together as he reached to brush a lock of hair off the boy’s forehead. “That looks like it hurt,” he commented, frown deepening as he shifted to get a closer look, “did you do that today?”

For half a second, Peter froze like a deer in headlights, before the excuse he’d come up with a minute ago came back to him. “Oh! Um, yeah, it’s fine though, I just, um, thought I’d try out a new formula for my webs, you know, to make them stronger, and Ned helped me make it-“

“You let Ned help you??” Tony interrupted, raising an eyebrow.

“Well I needed another pair of hands and my chemistry teacher, see he doesn't really mind what we’re doing so long as we don’t blow stuff up and-“ Peter could tell he was rambling “-anyway, we tried it out at lunch and it was super strong but it wasn't super, uhhh, springy, so I fell and hit a wall.” He finished abruptly, wary of Tony’s suddenly unreadable face.

“I’m sorry, it was an accident, but I think we got the formula almost right, it just needs-“ Tony interrupted again, raising his hands.

“Pete, don’t apologise, I don’t mind you tinkering with the solution, just… try it out somewhere soft next time, maybe?”

Something inside Peter’s chest loosened and he broke into a sheepish grin. “Yeah, okay, that’s a good idea, I’ll do that.” He rambled in relief this time and Tony looped an arm around his shoulder, shaking his head, lips twitching upwards.

“What am I gonna do with you kid?”

****


	3. Free Falling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things have definitely gotten bad again - the other avengers aren't as oblivious as Peter wants them to be

There had been some truth behind Peter’s excuse; the web fluid Ned had helped him make really _had_ been too rigid, and Peter’s high school chemistry classroom hadn’t exactly had the wealth of material Tony’s lab did to help him fix it. The two spent much of the evening experimenting with the formula until they had something Peter was pleased with. He was keen to try it out straight away, but Tony insisted they wait until tomorrow in a fit of uncharacteristic responsibility. The kid looked like he was ready to drop, and he was acutely aware neither of them had eaten anything in over 5 hours.

“Stick around for dinner kiddo, Bruce is making mac n cheese.” It wasn’t phrased like a request this time, and Peter cast a sideways glance at his mentor, panic stirring in his chest. Had Tony figured something out? His mentor’s expression stayed casual though, and after a half-second’s pause he feigned enthusiasm.

“Sounds great! I haven't seen Bruce in ages.” He berated himself internally for not trying harder to get out of the dinner, already nauseous at the thought of breaking his fast. _Accidental_ fast, he told himself. He couldn't use the MJ excuse again though - he’d already told Tony she’d been home sick from school today. If Tony noticed his hesitation he didn’t say anything, and Peter busied himself helping clean the lab to give himself time to calm down. Actual fear flooded his body at the thought of eating in front of the two men.

It scared him a little bit, how fast the disordered thoughts had taken root in his head. It had barely been two months since they first started up again, slow and insidious at first. The odd critical comment, absently choosing low-calorie foods, virtually meaningless behaviour had turned into full blown restriction in a matter of weeks, and now even an eighth of the food he should be eating in a day was way too much. His mind raced to come up with a way of getting out of the meal before eventually conceding there was none; at least not one that wouldn't make his fellow Avengers suspicious. Cons of hanging out with literal geniuses, Peter thought wryly.

Tony watched Peter carefully as they made their way upstairs from the lab. The kid had gone quiet when he’d mentioned dinner with Bruce, and he really did look exhausted. The bags under his eyes almost looked like bruises, and he was holding himself stiffly, like it hurt to move too quickly. He wondered if he’d done himself more damage than he let on when he hit that building earlier, and made a mental note to get KAREN to check out any injuries when he next put the suit on.

The elevator doors sliding smoothly open caught his attention though, and Tony grinned broadly as Bruce strode out of them, shoulders slightly hunched as he glanced around, habitually scoping the place out. It had been months since they’d last needed to break out the Other Guy, but Bruce still peered around every corner like he was afraid something would make him lose control. He smiled when he saw Tony and Peter cross the hallway towards him though, greeting them both with careful hugs.

Peter stiffened a little at his touch, suddenly paranoid about the amount of weight he’d dropped since they’d last met, knowing it would be more noticeable to Bruce than to those who saw him every day.

“Long time no see, kiddo!” The man had been in Oslo for the past month on some kind of science-y mission than no-one quite knew the details of. He looked pale, but otherwise more content than Peter remembered seeing him in a long time. Pulling away, Bruce cocked his head a little at Peter, opening his mouth as if he was going to say something. Automatically the kid launched into distraction mode.

“Dr Banner!! We really missed you, I’m okay at biology but I could totally use your help with some of the biomechanics of my suit - did you know we figured out I’m like 3% spider now?? - anyway we gotta find a way to make the fingers more sensitive - you know for climbing up walls and stuff - but every time we do that it gets like, way harder to stop it tearing…” Bruce shot a slightly bemused look at Tony over the kid’s head, who shrugged back. Peter chattered on as they walked to the kitchen and Bruce started pulling out various pots and pans.

In spite of himself, he’d never been able to resist a challenge, so Bruce shelved the slightly weird energy he’d gotten from the spiderling, reminding himself to speak to Tony later as he focused on what Peter was saying. Gradually, Peter relaxed as well, genuinely enjoying batting ideas back and forth with the two scientists, almost forgetting about the imminent prospect of dinner.

Still, he swallowed hard when the oven timer dinged, voice faltering as Bruce stooped to pull the dish out and set it on the table.

Glancing at the kid’s face as Bruce bustled around the table, Tony paused. The kid had gone white as a sheet, staring blankly. He swayed a little, and Tony reached out an arm to steady him in alarm.Peter flinched away from the touch and something cold twisted in Tony’s stomach. He let go immediately, and it took a moment for him to be able to speak around the tightening in his throat.

“Kid? You with us?” Bruce glanced up at the same second as Peter seemed to snap back into himself, physically shaking his head as if to clear it and dialling his smile back up to 100.

“Huh? Yeah, sorry, just.. tired, I guess.” Internally his heart was racing, and he was briefly thankful he was the only one around with enhanced hearing. Bruce and Tony shared another look. This time Peter caught it and forced himself to take a deep breath, grabbing a plate with forced gusto and scooping pasta onto his plate.

“This looks awesome, thanks Bruce!”

*****

Peter had disappeared as soon as they’d finished clearing up, practically running out the door, hurling promises about getting an early night over his shoulder. As soon as he was out of earshot, Bruce turned to Tony, expression a question mark.

“Is something going on with him? He seemed… off.” Tony’s gaze stayed fixed on where the kid had disappeared around the corner for a moment before he turned to face his friend, rubbing his lower lip, deep in thought. It wasn’t at all like Peter to hold things back, but it was _very_ like him to hide whatever he perceived as a weakness, and for a moment back there he’d thought the kid was going to collapse. Blowing out a long breath, he shrugged again.

“He hasn't told me anything, but you're right, something’s up. Maybe school? I know he has exams this year.” Bruce raised his eyebrows, unconvinced. Peter was practically family, and they both knew he had far too good a head on his shoulders to stress himself out over a few tests.

“He’s a bright kid, he’ll walk those exams. He looks sick.” Tony nodded, massaging the back of his next. He could feel a tension headache coming on. A pang of guilt shot through him. He’d been busy lately and tonight was the first time in a while he’d done something with the kid that wasn’t hunch over some project in the lab. Not that Peter would have dreamed of objecting, but still. What kind of example was he setting, spending every waking moment on work?

“I know. I’ll get KAREN to run some tests next time he’s Spider-ing. He hasn’t been himself since…” Bruce was already nodding, forehead creased. Peter had put on a brave face, but the truth was that May’s death had destroyed him - he was better than he had been, but there was a seriousness about him that hadn’t been there before.

“Anniversary’s coming up, isn’t it? That can be a rough period.” Tony’s lips pulled down at the corners, and he nodded wordlessly again, sighing.

“He’ll be okay Tony. He’s lucky to have you in his corner.” The inventor gave him a grateful smile, leaning back tiredly.

“Who’d have kids, huh?”

****

Peter barely held it together for the time it took him to flee Stark tower, all too aware that if he so much as broke down in the elevator FRIDAY would be sure to feed it back to Tony. Instead, he pushed open the glass doors and hurtled down the pavement, breath heaving in his chest. Only his superhuman reflexes saved him from being squished flat in the heavy New York traffic as he made his way back to his apartment, gasps turning to sobs as he collapsed through the front door.

He virtually crawled to the bathroom, grasping his penknife with still-shaking fingers and forcing up the sleeve of his shirt. Panic made him clumsy, and he carved thick lines across his wrist, one after another until the blood spilt like wine across the floor. Only when he ran out of space on his left forearm did he stop, sitting heavily against the wall and hunching forwards, careless of the scarlet that soaked into his clothes. He pulled his legs to his chest and leant his forehead on his knees, crying so hard he couldn't breathe.

Some rational part of his brain watched from a distance, horrified that things had gotten to this stage without him taking more conscious note of it. The fact that things had gotten bad again - might even have gotten as bad as they'd ever been - was undeniable. He barely registered this though, desperately trying to draw in enough oxygen, hyperventilating so fast he felt sick.

The nausea crept up his throat so suddenly he almost didn’t have time to twist sideways and bend over the toilet bowl before he was retching violently, bile burning up the back of his throat. He coughed weakly, spitting and choking on tears before sinking forwards on his knees and letting out a whining breath. Shocked out of his hysteria, Peter gasped for air, resting his forehead on his arm and closing his eyes. He tried and failed not to be relieved that he’d thrown up the only square meal he’d had that day. Gradually, his breathing steadied and his taught muscles relaxed, the world fading away around him.

He woke with a cry, jerking backwards and wincing as his legs cramped. Stretching them out in front of him, he ran a hand through his hair. He didn’t remember falling asleep but supposed he must have, given that the bathroom had darkened around him. Oddly shaped stains marred the floor, and Peter reluctantly pushed himself to his feet, stifling a yawn and flipping the light on.

“Shit.” The entire bathroom looked like the scene of a murder, and a quick glance down at the clothes he was wearing gave away the would-be victim. Blood was smeared across the toilet bowl, pooled in the sink and on the floor. Even the walls hadn’t gotten away clean, a rusty brown handprint speaking volumes.

Stretching his arm gingerly out in front of him, Peter cringed. He wasn't naturally squeamish, but even to his untrained eye the cuts he’d made looked bad: deep and jagged and still oozing trickles of blood. He bit his lip, tears springing to his eyes again. He was suddenly, desperately lonely, longing to call someone to come and help him, hold him and fix him. Dashing away the pointless tears he took a deep breath and squared his jaw. He was Spiderman. He could deal with a little blood.

Stripping off his saturated t-shirt, he threw it in the sink and turned the cold water on, carefully rinsing out the bloodstains. It was remarkably effective, so he gave his trousers the same treatment before pulling a cloth and spray out the cupboard and scrubbing hard at the stains littering almost every surface. It was a full 20 minutes before the room looked vaguely useable again, clean but for a few stubborn spots where smudges of brown were still just visible.

The vigorous activity had reopened the cuts on his arm and the blood flowed more enthusiastically now. He held it close to his chest to avoid dripping more on the floor, padding wearily to the kitchen to find May’s old first aid kit. He kept it well stocked - because, Spiderman - and grabbed a bandage. Leaving that on the side of the sink he jumped in the cold shower, half smiling as the water ran pink below him. It wasn’t that he was proud of the cuts - it was just a refreshing change to have how he felt on the inside reflected on his brutalised arms.

Once he’d dried off and bandaged his arm, he shrugged carefully into his suit, glancing at the clock by his bed. Only 1am; he could fit in a few hours of patrol and still snatch a few hours of sleep before school.

KAREN greeted him with all the warmth an AI could muster as he pulled on the mask and swung out his window.

“Hello Peter.”

“Hey KAREN.” Peter glanced over his should before scaling the side of the building, perching lightly on the top and gazing out across the city, trying to put the evening out of his mind.

“Mister Stark has asked me for a report on your vitals. I can also see you have a number of injuries that require medical attention. Would you like me to contact-“ Peter’s eyes widened and he almost overbalanced, flailing wildly trying to cut the AI off.

“No!” he yelped, “don’t contact anyone! I’m fine, it was just… an accident… I don’t want to bother Mister uh Tony, it’s all good.” The AI was silent for a moment and Peter got the uncanny feeling that she knew more than he was telling her, ridiculous as the thought seemed.

“Okay Peter. Would you like me to send the report on your vitals excluding your injuries?” Peter pulled a face.

“I don’t suppose you can just… not send a report?”

“In accordance with the Baby Monitor protocol, I am afraid I cannot disobey a direct request from Mister Stark.”

Peter swore under his breath.

“Fine, okay, go ahead.”

****

The cuts were still raw the next day, and Peter wrapped a hasty new bandage around them before he left, intentionally wearing a bulky jumper to hide the shape beneath his sleeves. The school day dragged, especially with MJ still sick at home, and by the time he trudged out the school gates Peter’s head was spinning in earnest. His injuries throbbed, and even the ugly scab across his forehead was little better than it had been yesterday.

He’d eaten a granola bar at lunch to keep Ned happy, but it had done little to satiate the gnawing emptiness in the pit of his concave stomach. On top of that, a large part of him was dreading seeing Tony after KAREN’s report yesterday. She might have kept the worst of it from him, but Peter knew his vitals wouldn't exactly be normal right now. She might even have been programmed with a means of weighing him, and that really would be disastrous. Peter cursed himself for not asking for a copy of the report so he could at least walk in prepared. As it was, potential excuses flittered anxiously around his brain, desperately trying to cover every potential eventuality.

He was so distracted he almost forgot to greet Happy at all, barely managing a half-hearted ‘hello’ before lapsing into a troubled silence for the rest of the journey, fidgeting with the fraying edges of his sleeves. Tony’s bodyguard shot him a sidelong look as they pulled up to the tower.

“Hang on a minute kid,” he started as Peter went to open the car door, waiting for the boy to turn to face him before continuing, “you know you can text me, right? If there’s ever something wrong, or you need anything. Just text me.”

Peter looked genuinely surprised at the offer, a smile breaking through the tiredness etched into his face. “Thanks Happy.”

FRIDAY greeted him as usual as he entered.

“Mister Stark is currently in a meeting. He says to wait for him in the training room.” Peter raised an eyebrow. When was Tony _not_ in a meeting? He was confused about the training room part too before he remembered Tony’s promise that they could try out his new webs today. A glimmer of excitement stirred in his stomach. He’d used the old ones last night without incident, but it would beace if he could surprise the next bad guy who tried to slice through one.

“Cool, thanks FRIDAY!” He answered brightly as he hopped into the elevator. He strapped the new web shooters to his wrists without bothering to change into the full suit; there was no one who had access to this room who didn’t already know his identity anyway.

The training room was roughly the size of a large sports hall; there were more impressive ones in the Avengers compound upstate, but the Avengers liked to use this one for lighter training when they had the time. Large metal beams laced across the roof, designed with Clint’s rafter-dwelling habits in mind, and with the press of a button huge rectangular structures emerged from the floor, simulating rooftops.

Peter hit this button now, taking a brief run up before launching himself at the closest block, clinging to it with his bare fingertips and racing upwards. Shooting a web at one of the ceiling rafters he winged a quick prayer to the formula gods before throwing himself from his perch, 50 feet off the ground. Thankfully, the web caught him easily, just the right amount of give in the rope to swing him easily to the next block.

Laughing aloud, he hurled himself up and sideways again, webs catching him and swinging him around the room; the formula served his basics purpose, though he wouldn't know how effective it really was before Tony could help him try and cut it. Out of breath more quickly than usual, Peter swung himself to the top of the tallest block and leapt for the rafters, catching hold and pulling himself up with more effort than he expected.

He started so hard he almost lost his balance to see Clint lazing casually across a beam, watching him with some amusement.

“New toy?” Peter grinned, holding out the web shooters for better inspection.

“New formula, so they can’t cut my webs.” Clint feigned an outraged gasp.

“They cut your webs? Wow, dick move. That feels like cheating.”

“Totally cheating!!” Peter clambered to his feet, intending to head over to where Clint was, but as he did so, his smile faltered. The dizziness he’d just about kept at bay all day intensified nauseatingly, blackness suddenly creeping into the corners of his vision. He stumbled a step, grabbing for another horizontal beam and leaning heavily on it.

Clint sprang to his feet, face tightening.

“Pete? You okay buddy?” He couldn't keep the urgency out of his voice as the kid swayed where he stood, gaze suddenly unfocused. He stayed on his feet for the beat it took Clint to start running towards him, skipping over beams like they weren't 50 feet off the ground, before pitching forwards and tumbling towards the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you're liking the story - thank you for reading this far!! I'm trying to update every day at the moment (neglecting my responsibilities to write fic as a coping mechanism has gotten me this far). Please do comment and lmk what I can do better/what you liked/what you hated, love me, curse me, roast me and know I adore you for it all the same <3
> 
> Hopefully things will start getting better for Peter soon.... but probably not in the next chapter...


	4. Collateral Damage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter isn't ready to accept that he needs help
> 
> For some reason I was really feeling the song 'Runaway Train' by Soul Asylum while I was writing this

“Oh shit.”

Clint’s heart skipped a beat as the kid fell, making no effort to save himself. There was no way he would reach him in time to grab him from here. Without thinking about it, Clint strung a grappler arrow to his bow and dived forwards, twisting around to fire upwards as he fell. For an agonising second he thought he was going to be too late, but the tips of his fingers just managed to catch hold of the back of the kid’s hoodie, and he pulled him close to his chest.

The rope holding them both pulled taught with a teeth-jarring jerk, and Clint wrapped his arms tight around Peter and squeezed his eyes shut as it swung them towards one of the giant metal blocks. The impact knocked the wind out of him, and he was glad of the shock-absorbers he’d reluctantly let Stark build into his vest. Groaning, he opened his eyes to see that they were suspended a mere two feet off the ground. Reaching awkwardly around Peter he slashed the rope holding them up, landing on two feet with a grunt and lowering them both to the ground.

He blanched a little as he got a closer look at the kid. His face was so pale it was almost grey, and his cheekbones stood out sharply above sunken cheeks. A gnarly bruise complemented a scabbing cut on his forehead, standing out starkly against his skin. He was thin, as well, and Clint could feel the outlines of Peter’s ribs even through the bulky sweater he had on. Pushing up the kid’s sleeve to get to the pulse in his wrist, Clint hesitated as his fingers brushed gauze, eyes flicking worriedly back to his face.

“Pete, you with me?” The unconscious boy made no response, and Clint was suddenly, painfully reminded how achingly young he was. He tapped the side of his face, relieved to find his pulse steady under his other hand, if a little slow.

“Come on Spider boy, nap time’s over.” As if he’d heard him, Peter’s eyes blinked open, squinting in the sudden brightness. Clint breathed out a heavy sigh, unable to keep his relief from his face.

“Jesus kid. Next time you feel like taking a rooftop swan dive, you gotta give a guy some warning, okay?” Peter’s wide eyes found his face, before taking in their new surroundings.

“What happened? Did I fall?” Clint raised an eyebrow.

“Spectacularly. It looked like you fainted.” Clint didn’t miss the recognition that flashed across the kid’s face, for all that Peter quickly schooled it away, feigning surprise.

“Oh crap, I’m sorry! How did you….” He spotted the grapple still dangling from the ceiling and trailed off, taking in how much worse could have been with a thrill of shock. He opened his mouth to speak again, but Clint interrupted.

“Has this happened before?” Peter started a little, shifting uncomfortably and biting his lip. He hadn’t collapsed quite so amazingly in a long time, but the dizziness had made him stumble more than once in the last few weeks. 

“I’m fine.” He muttered, studiously avoiding the archer’s gaze as he tried to sit up. Clint put a hand on his back, helping him lean against the block behind them and sitting cross-legged opposite, keeping his eyes on the kid’s face.

“Yeah, I’m getting that.” Peter stayed stubbornly silent and Clint sighed again, running a hand through his hair.

“Kid, if something’s wrong-“ Peter cut him off, suddenly defensive.

“It’s nothing! I just forgot to eat today, that’s all.” Clint watched him, wordlessly, for a moment before nodding in resignation and leaning back a little.

“Okay. I believe you.” It didn’t take Peter’s spidey senses to guess that the man was lying, and he cursed internally. Of all the Avengers, Clint and Natasha were easily the hardest to shake when they were looking for information, and he didn’t really want to be courting their attention right now.

At that moment, FRIDAY’s voice sounded from above them.

“Mister Stark’s meeting has finished. He will be here shortly.”

Peter’s eyes widened in alarm and he was on his feet so fast Clint almost got whiplash, glancing around wildly for anything that would give away what had just happened. He turned back to the archer, who climbed to his feet with a groan, rubbing the spot where his side had slammed into the wall.

“You don’t want me to tell him.” Clint guessed before Peter had the chance to open his mouth.

“I don’t want to stress him out, he’s so busy right now, please Clint.” The request sat ill with Hawkeye, who eyed Peter reluctantly. He was 99% sure something was up, and if anyone was equipped to throw resources at a problem until it went away, Tony was. Then again, the man did have the tendency to freak out when it came to Peter.

“You promise me you're going to look after yourself and not make me regret it?”

“I promise! For sure, I promise.” Peter was practically vibrating with nerves and Clint pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Okay. So long as you eat something right now, before you do any more training.” He didn’t miss the flicker of apprehension that crossed the kid’s face at the request, before Peter flashed him a billion watt grin.

“Sure, FRIDAY could you-“ Before he could even finish the sentence, a small panel in the wall swung open, revealing a secret cupboard full of energy bars, drinks and even tiny gummy sweets.Peter pursed his lips for a moment, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. He made a mental note to pick a fight with Tony about whether or not there was such a thing as ‘too convenient’.

Clint made no pretence at keeping the smirk off his face, reaching into the cupboard and tossing Peter a bar, trying to hide how closely he was watching as the kid unwrapped it and took a hesitant bite. He pulled a face, chewing carefully as if Clint had asked him to test the thing for poison. A hint of dread knotted itself in Clint’s stomach as he watched the kid eat, so slowly and painfully he might as well have been swallowing broken glass.

“Better?” He asked casually once he was done. The kid, if anything, was even paler than before, swallowing hard before he answered.

“Oh, yeah, much, thanks Clint.” Even the faked enthusiasm was pitiful, and Clint was already wishing he hadn’t promised not to tell Tony about the fainting episode. He resolved to give it a week; if the kid looked worse, or if Clint found proof of his suspicions, he’d go to Nat. She’d know what to do.

“No problem. And kid - if there’s anything you need,” he pointed to the rafters, “you know where to find me.” Peter nodded and smiled back at him, though there was something sad in the expression.He didn’t get a chance to press him though, as Tony strode through the doors to the gym.

“Legolas! I see SHIELD is still recruiting teenagers.” Clint bit back a retort, knowing better than to point out that Tony himself had been the one to recruit Peter in the first place; now that the billionaire had grown a little more of a conscience it was a sore spot of his.

“Nice to see you too Stark.” He replied as Tony wrapped a protective arm around Peter. The billionaire was a little wary of Clint Barton, especially given his ties to Coulson and SHIELD, all too aware that if ever they were forced again to pick sides, Clint wouldn't necessarily pick his.

Tony was carrying an impressive, ceremonial-looking sword, and Clint exaggeratedly edged around it as he headed to the door.

“Play nicely!” He called over his shoulder.

****

Once he’d started Peter off on some basic drills, designed to test the both the strength and elasticity of the new web formula, Tony slipped on a pair of enhanced sunglasses to get a better look at the kid. The report KAREN had sent him yesterday had been on his mind all night. According to his suit’s AI, Peter’s heart rate, blood pressure and body temperature were all lower than usual, and he was quietly desperate to get a full analysis of his blood to start ruling things out.

He was trying to contrive a reason to get the kid to step on a scale though; FRIDAY’s estimate of Peter’s body weight based on KAREN’s data had been impossibly low, and there was no way Peter could have lost that much weight so quickly. Especially given that the kid hadn’t so much as had a cold in months.

It troubled him that KAREN hadn't sent over the injury report he’d suggested as well - the only reason she would have omitted it would be if she’d been asked to. He knew, rationally, that Peter was entitled to some privacy, but he didn’t like the idea that he could be hiding something serious.Hence the sunglasses. FRIDAY’s voice greeted him quietly as he adjusted them, letting the miniature cameras in them lock onto Peter.

“Okay, FRI, let’s just do a quick movement scan for injuries.” He murmured under his breath, all too aware that the kid’s enhanced hearing would tip him off to what was going on if he spoke any louder. It took a full nail-biting minute before the AI returned the analysis, and Tony was unpleasantly reminded of the sensation of awaiting test results in school. To the untrained eye, Peter’s deft motions appeared perfectly normal. FRIDAY returned a different verdict. 

“Peter Parker appears to be favouring his right arm heavily. Movement range is restricted across his left side. This may indicate moderate injuries to the ribs and forearm. Overall muscle strength is at 60%.”

Tony drew in a sharp breath and pulled off the glasses, brow furrowing. If FRIDAY’s readings were accurate, which they were, Peter was hiding more than just a few injuries. The kid glanced his way, attention drawn by his gasp, and Tony noted that the cut on his forehead still hadn’t even begun to heal. He felt his own heart pick up. Something was seriously wrong

“Come over here for a second, kid.” He kept his tone as nonchalant as he could, shoving his hands in his pockets and leaning against the wall, taking a deep breath to steady himself. Peter was at his side in an instant, barely out of breath, though his eyes flicked nervously over Tony’s face for a moment, all too aware that he would have read KAREN’s report by now. The look on Tony’s face confirmed his fears, and he fought the urge to run again.

“Did I do that right? Do you want me to try something else? I think the webs are working pretty well so far, and it’s good that the sword couldn't cut them earlier-“

“Peter,” Tony interrupted him suddenly, looking as serious as the kid had ever seen him, “what’s going on with you? Your vitals are all over the place, and now FRIDAY tells me you're hurt and you're not healing… what’s happening, kid?” Lines of worry creased around the man’s eyes and marred his forehead, and he pressed a hand to his chest, as if doing so could ease the tightness in it.

For a second Peter stood stock still, what little colour there was in his face draining from it. He couldn't stand to see the pain on Tony’s face, the malicious voice in his head screaming full tilt at him. _This is what you do to people! You make them care and you break them! You're no better than Skip._ His head ached fiercely, and he still wasn’t completely convinced he wasn’t about to throw up. A part of him wished Clint had just let him go splat.

Peter shrugged helplessly, suddenly fighting tears. How could he explain to Tony what was happening in his head? He could barely even explain it to himself. It only felt like somehow, years ago, one evil man had carved a self-destruct code into his head. In doing what he had done to Peter, Skip had made him into a ticking time bomb. Uncle Ben, Aunt May, everything he saw on the streets every night - all of it had only accelerated the countdown and now he was set to implode.

Tony’s face creased, and he stepped closer to Peter, touching his arm gently. The kid flinched like Tony had kicked him, enhanced senses making his entire body feel like a raw nerve at even the thought of Skip. As he stepped away, raising his hands as if talking to a startled animal, Tony remembered he’d had the same reaction at dinner yesterday. It was a symptom he’d recognised in himself for months after Afghanistan.

“It’s okay, you're okay,” he held Peter’s frantic gaze with a calm he didn’t feel, “you’re totally safe here.”

Peter could feel the panic constricting his chest already, suddenly desperate to get out of that room, out the building, out of the whole fucking city. Spiderman had saved his life, but it had also damned him; there could be no breaks, no doing things by halves, when every night lives were at stake. He couldn't stop and he couldn't rest and now Tony would make him stop doing the only things that made the guilt bearable.

“I can’t do this.” His voice cracked, and his lungs ached sharply at the lack of oxygen as he fought to draw in air that suddenly felt thicker than usual, like inhaling soup. Tony fought the urge to step closer.

“Breathe, Peter, breathe with me.” He did his best to keep the urgency from his voice, half-afraid the kid was about to pass out on him. How had he not known the kid was getting panic attacks?

Peter was shaking his head, backing away.

“You don’t understand, I can’t-“ a sob choked out his throat, and he pressed his face into his hands, doubling up. Tony watched in dismay, stepping closer again, desperate to comfort the kid, lost as to how.

“Peter-”

“Leave me alone, Tony!” The shout echoed off the walls, the silence shattered only by Peter’s ragged breathing. Straightening, he backed away again, trembling violently. When he spoke again, he looked Tony dead in the eye, his voice hoarse.

“Don’t follow me.”

For the second time in as many days Peter fled Stark tower.

****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pretty sure Peter might be about to hit rock bottom, poor baby 


	5. Nothing bad is going to happen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter is on his own - the question is, how long can he sustain that? 
> 
> Anyone else feel like he's about 2,000 words away from hitting rock bottom?

Peter didn’t remember how he got back to his apartment, or how he ended up sitting on the kitchen floor covered in blood again. He could piece it together - the discarded kitchen knife, the cuts on his arms - but as far as memory itself went, he drew a blank. It wasn’t the first time something like that had happened. The psychiatrist he’d seen in 6th grade had called it dissociation - that process of disappearing from himself completely, losing time, coming back to a different place than he'd left.It had gotten less terrifying, but it sure as hell hadn’t gotten easier.

His legs were stiff as he unfolded them, and a glance at his phone told him why; it was four full hours since he’d left Tony standing there, shell shocked in the gym hall. He closed his eyes against the memory, guilt like a stone in his stomach. He’d loved being a part of the Avengers, loved the team, loved Tony, and that was exactly why he had to give them up.

It had come down to them or Spiderman, and the people of Queens needed him a hell of a lot more than the Avengers did. New York needed Spiderman, and Spiderman needed a way to cope, and if the Avengers took that away the whole thing would come crumbling down. The way Peter saw it, with his abilities, the people he didn’t save he was still responsible for. If Peter Parker had to die so that Spiderman could keep saving people a little longer, so be it.

Pushing himself shakily to his feet, he started to get ready for another patrol.

****

Peter could feel the chill of the night even through his suit as he crouched atop the Brooklyn bridge, watching the rush of the traffic below. He didn’t know what he weighed - May had never kept scales in the apartment - but he knew that even in the summery August air, he was freezing cold. That and the fact that he’d almost had his ass handed to him by a run-of-the-mill bank robber tipped him off that what he was doing probably wasn't going to be sustainable for all too much longer.

There was a kind of peace in that though, the idea that this would kill him sooner or later. The end in sight made it easer to get through nights like this one.

The energy bar Clint had forced him to choke down had long since burned out of his system, and his supercharged metabolism had all but run out of fuel. He could virtually feel it breaking down his muscles, desperate to keep the rest of him running at expense of less vital tissues. It made him weak, and his arms spasmed excruciatingly with every swing.

He was always busier in summer anyway, the long daylight hours meaning people stayed out longer, got drunker and stupider. Earlier, he’d narrowly avoided getting bottled as he was breaking up a particularly nasty fight outside one of the area’s more notorious bars.

His ears pricked up at the sound of whispered voices far below him in the nearby docks, and he dropped silently from his perch, leaping lightly from rooftop to rooftop, pausing as he reached one that overlooked a dark alleyway. A cluster of four men surrounded the back of a van, the contents of which were obscured from Peter’s view. His spider-senses warned him that whatever it was, he had reason to suspect it wasn’t exactly above-board.

Taking care to keep to the shadows, Peter crept down the side of the building, edging around to position himself behind the men before straightening and looking over their shoulders. Sleek, grey metal glinted from the back of the van; a range of weapons the Tony Stark of old would have been proud of.

“I don’t think you guys are supposed to have those.” Peter was ducking before the men had even turned around, sweeping the feet out from under the man who had swung a fist towards him. He crashed onto his back, swearing, and Peter webbed his still-outstretched hand to the van before jumping backwards. His buddies had been slower to react, but now Peter had lost the element of surprise, and they advanced menacingly on him. Two held wicked serrated knives, and Peter raised his eyebrows, cocking his head to one side.

“Wow those are, like, really illegal, you guys are totally going to jail.”

The man on his left lunged towards him and Peter leapt backwards again, the knife that would have opened his stomach slicing through thin air. Peter launched a kick at the man’s ribs, sending him crashing to the floor off balance as the unarmed man jumped at him, landing a stinging hit to his jaw that snapped his head around.

His vision darkened for a moment, and he relied on sheer reflex to hurl the man over his shoulder, where he landed gasping on his back. A single well-aimed kick to the temple had the man fall limp; dirty fighting, but it _had_ been four on one, and technically they’d started it.

The man he’d shoved over had scrambled back to his feet, and now the two with knives charged simultaneously, fury making them fierce. One man slashed at his face, and Peter blocked the blow with ease, deflecting the blade and parrying with a sharp jab to his stomach that had him double up. He was less fortunate with the other man, who landed a lucky hit that tore a vicious cut along his shoulder; not where he’d been aiming, but painful enough that Peter yelped aloud. Pissed off, he spun around and grabbed the man’s wrist with both hands, yanking in downwards so it snapped cleanly over his knee. The man screamed and dropped his weapon, staggering backwards into the van. Peter shot a web at his uninjured arm, sticking him where he was. 

“Oh man I’m really sorry, that should heal fine though, just don’t move it.” His buddy had straightened up and now ran at Peter a third time, making such an event of aiming a kick at his ribs that Peter figured he could probably have run a lap of Brooklyn before the blow actually landed. Sidestepping easily, he grabbed the man’s foot and yanked it upwards, sending him crashing to the ground again and kicking the blade from his hand with just a smudge more force than necessary, resisting the urge to stamp on the man’s hand for good measure.

Picking him up by the collar, he pinned him against the side of the van, carefully webbing him to it, so tight he couldn't move, let alone breath. As he was doing so, his spider-senses suddenly exploded into life, practically making his hair stand on end. He dropped to the ground as a shot whistled over his head; the first man he’d webbed to the van had grabbed and loaded one of the illicit weapons whilst he was preoccupied. Peter cursed himself for missing him, rolling hastily under the van as he fired again, the bullet missing him by inches.

“I thought this was a knife fight? You brought a gun?” Pushing himself onto all fours, Peter lifted the entire weight of the van onto his back, the men he’d stuck to it yelling in alarm as he shifted it onto his shoulder and tipped it to one side, throwing the shooter off balance. His last shot went wide, scraping along the bottom of the van and showering Peter with shrapnel, before the van landed heavily on its side, sending the gun skittering from his fingers.

Peter pursed his lips as he webbed all four men thoroughly to the van, firing the gun four times into the air to call the police before discarding it in distaste. The men stared after him, swearing, as he disappeared back into the shadows.

Peter held it together for long enough to be out of sight, crawling his way up to the rooftop of a dusty warehouse before sitting heavily, exhaustedly pulling the mask away from his face. Serrated blades were illegal for a reason, and blood drenched the side of his suit from the jagged wound on his left shoulder. It wasn’t bad enough to need Bruce to take a look at it, he decided, gingerly stretching his arm out in front of him. He would need to sew up the suit though.

Of greater concern was the way his head was spinning, making the world lurch around him like a rollercoaster. A few months ago, he’d have been able to toss that van 100 yards without breaking a sweat. Tonight though, even barely lifting it off the ground had him shaking like a chihuahua. He groaned as the pitching of the floor below started to make him nauseous. He tolerated it for approximately ten seconds before rolling sideways and throwing up the contents of his stomach - mostly coffee and bile, he realised with some disgust.

A sharp pain lanced through his chest and he gasped aloud, pressing a hand to the pain, eyes widening. He was a smart kid; he knew what the consequences of prolonged starvation could be, he just thought he’d have more time. It had only been a couple of months since he’d properly started restricting, though he knew his metabolism made that the equivalent of an awful lot longer to a normal person.

The pain ebbed slowly and he lay on his back, breathing steadily, eyes shut, too tired to keep patrolling, or even to make it home to his apartment.

****

Tony decided to give him a week, wary of pushing the kid further than he could handle. He’d looked close to breaking point that day in the gym room, and it didn’t take a genius to figure out that he needed a little breathing space, at least for a while. That didn’t mean he wasn't going to keep an eye on him though. The kid was sick, or hurting, or _something_ , and until Tony figured out what was going on, he had no plans whatsoever to leave the kid on his own.

The kid had done an annoyingly good job of dismantling the Baby Monitor protocol in his suit, so the best Tony had access to was his location, heart rate, and whether he was in imminent danger: in-built statuses he’d made it impossible to dismantle. The latter turned out to be a less helpful indicator than Tony had initially thought, as the thing sent him notifications practically every ten minutes when the kid was on patrol, sending his own heart rate skyrocketing every time his phone beeped.

Now, 5 days after he’d resolved to give the kid some space, he was beginning to realise what a deeply horrible idea that had been. The screen in front of him gave a live readout of Peter’s location, currently roaming around Manhattan, not far from the tower. He regretfully wished he’d added better encryption to the circuits containing the cameras he’d installed in the eyes of the suit; those had been one of the first to go when Peter had doctored his outfit almost a week ago.

The door to his lab suddenly swung open, making him jump so hard he almost fell out of his chair. Bruce raised both hands, approaching the inventor with some caution.

“I come in peace.” He pulled up a chair, studying the screen in front of them and shooting Tony a sideways glance.

“You know it’s 3am, right?” Tony nodded distractedly, fidgeting with some kind of robotic contraption he was half-heartedly fixing.

“Kid never fucking sleeps.” He muttered, draining a mug still half-full of a substance that looked more like mud than coffee. Bruce raised an eyebrow, deciding against pointedly speculating whether there was anyone around here he might have learnt that from.

“That doesn't mean you can’t get some rest, Tony,” he kept his voice as soothing as he could make it, “you look like shit.” He added frankly. Tony was ignoring him, tapping at the screen. Peter’s heart rate had spiked a few minutes ago, and it was rapidly climbing to troubling levels.

“FRIDAY scan all social media and news footage, keyword: Spiderman.” He sat back, not really expecting much; he'd asked Friday to repeat the search at least a hundred times in the last week, and all he’d gotten for his trouble was the realisation that 99% of the super-kid’s work happened in the background. This time however, a grainy phone video, streaming live, filled the screen.

The two men leant forwards in unison. Spiderman - Peter - swung at a dizzying speed from one of New York’s hundreds of skyscrapers, letting go and flying through the air before landing on top of a stationary taxi and taking off, leaping from car to car. He was chasing a man almost three times his size who was holding what looked like a rocket launcher, sporadically turning to fire the thing at Peter.

Peter was more than holding his own though; what concerned the two men was the kid himself. The suit was designed to alter itself to fit snugly around Peter’s body, making him as streamlined as possible. Now though, it had the added effect of letting Tony and Bruce see for the first time just how much weight the kid had lost. The usually tight material was nearly baggy on his skeletal frame, stretched taught over his concave stomach, and Tony could practically count his ribs from where he sat.

“Jesus,” Bruce whispered, unable to tear his eyes away from the footage, “there’s nothing of him.” As they watched, Peter shot a web at the man he was pursuing, tripping him up for just long enough for the kid to slam into him at full speed, knocking them both flying. The person taping them jogged to get a closer look and for a second the footage was just of grubby pavement. When it refocused, Peter was back on his feet, crouched in a tight defensive position. The weapon was webbed far out of reach, attached to a nearby building, and the tall guy was sprawled on the pavement, feet neatly webbed together, staring up at the scrawny superhero in disbelief.

“Where did you even get a rocket launcher?” Peter was visibly out of breath as he stood over the man, and the right side of his suit was marred by scorch marks. The picture wasn’t good enough for Tony to be able to tell if he was bleeding or not, and a moment later, the sound of sirens drowned out whatever the man had responded. Peter glanced up, flashing a grin to the cameraman, who whooped appreciatively as he turned and fled, flinging himself up the nearest building before disappearing out of shot.

The footage cut out shortly after, and the silent that replaced suddenly made the lab feel claustrophobic. Tony pressed the palm of his hand flat against his chest and stood, pacing around the lab, trying and failing to get his rapid breathing under control.

“FRIDAY, where is he?” The man’s voice was short and strangled, and Bruce stood with him, face creasing in concern as he recognised the beginnings of a panic attack.

“5 blocks west of here boss.” Tony nodded, crossing his arms over his chest as if trying to physically hold himself together.

“Is he okay?” His voice cracked as he asked the question, and he pressed a trembling hand to his lips.

“I’m afraid my access to KAREN has been revoked beyond the basics; I am unable to produce an injury report. However, based on the damage to his suit, it is likely that Mr Parker sustained moderate to severe burns.” 

Tony went so white that Bruce grabbed his arm, lowering him carefully to a chair as his legs gave out and crouching in front of him.

“Tony, listen to me. I’m going to get one of the others to go and find him, okay? They can go, see if he’s okay, and bring him back here of he’s not.”

Tony shook his head numbly, leaning forwards to put his head in his hands, fighting to slow his breathing.

“He doesn’t- doesn't want to come here.” Bruce glanced away briefly, running a hand through his hair and wetting his lips, a pained smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“He might be Spiderman, but you think he can out-fight Clint and Natasha on a mission, in his state? They’ll get him back.” Tony didn’t reply, and Bruce leant forwards to get a better look at his face, brows pulling together as he realised the man was on the verge of tears. He couldn't remember every seeing him cry before - was pretty sure he’d have had his tear ducts surgically removed if he could - and the sight was jarring.

“Tony? Deep breaths pal. We’ll keep him safe. I promise you. I swear to you, no-one on this team will let anything bad happen to Peter.”

****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another little cliffhanger for you!! Sorry this update was a little later than usual - I'm sort of trying to write my dissertation at the same time and my supervisor wouldn't let me hand in an extract of this instead...
> 
> To give a cryptic warning - I have a feeling everyone in this chapter may have misjudged their own limitations....
> 
> Normal service should resume shortly! I'm gonna be updating as often as humanly possible, the obsession is real.   
> Thank you so so much for all your love and comments, keep them coming! I adore hearing from you <3333


	6. Faded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint tries to reach Peter as things continue to spiral out of any of their control

The sight of Peter lying prone on a grimy rooftop made Clint’s stomach drop as he reached the top of the stairs, and he broke into a sprint, dropping to his knees fast enough to bruise them, hands hovering uselessly. It shocked him how much worse the kid looked. His face was black and blue, bruises littering his jawbone and darkening both his eyes. Dried blood crusted the base of his nose and matted a patch of his usually blonde hair. He thought he’d looked rough a week ago; since then it looked like the kid had gone ten rounds with Mike Tyson.

“Pete?” He could hear the tremor in his own voice and took a deep breath. He wouldn't do anyone any good by freaking out. His mission was to get the kid back to the tower so Bruce could check him out. Much as that would have been easier if the kid was too out of it to run, he still leant backwards in relief as the kid stirred.

“We gotta stop meeting like this, kid.” He breathed, massaging his temples. Peter sat bolt upright, and reached in panic for his discarded mask before realising who he was. Clint caught his wrist reflexively, narrowing his eyes as the kid grimaced. Before Peter could react, Clint had yanked his sleeve to his elbow, exposing row after row of neat cuts. Some had scarred over but most were fresh, deep enough to expose muscle tissue, and ringed by deep red bruises.

Peter pulled his arm back sharply, shoving his sleeve down and meeting Clint’s gaze with defiance.

“I just had a rough couple of days.” He worked hard to keep his voice steady, and it came out flat and bleak. He didn’t need to look at Clint to know he didn’t buy it.

“Just a couple of days?” The archer prompted, a sad look in his eyes. He was beginning to piece together a reasonable idea of what was wrong with Peter, and his heart felt heavy. Peter couldn't look at him. Pushing himself to his feet, he blinked hard, shaking his head to clear the spinning.

Clint jumped to his feet after him.

“Look, I won’t tell anyone else if you don’t want me to, okay? But you have to talk to someone. And if you don’t want to talk to me I can call anyone else in here and you can talk to them instead. But if you don’t talk to someone, I can’t just say nothing. You need help.”

Peter’s shoulders slumped forwards in defeat. His thoughts moved groggily, and he didn’t have the energy to think up a convincing excuse. Not that Clint would buy it, anyway; a decades-long career in spy-work did not make for a gullible human being.

“I don’t need help, I need to be Spiderman. I need to help other people.” Clint raised an eyebrow.

“You ever hear the one about the oxygen mask? Y’know, putting your own on first? I hate to say it but this isn't going to get better on its own, kid.”

“What if I don’t want it to get better?!” The words slipped out before Peter had a chance to think about them, and his eyes widened as he scrambled to take them back.

“I don’t mean that, I just mean…” He trailed off lamely. What _had_ he meant, he suddenly wondered. He’d never really considered himself suicidal, but nowadays the idea of dying on the job, or even just letting himself starve to death, was the only thing that really brought him any relief. Silence hung between them like a physical barrier, and Clint rubbed the back of his neck, brows pulled together.

“Peter… The way you're feeling right now… It doesn't have to be like this. It _won’t_ always be like this, I guarantee it.” Peter opened his mouth to argue, but Clint cut him off.

“I can see that something is eating you up. I’m not going to ask you what it is, and I’m not going to insult your intelligence by telling you that it’s going to be okay. But I do promise that, whatever it is, we can deal with it. You just have to let us help you.”

For a moment, Peter wanted so badly to believe him his chest ached. But then, the familiar voices kicked in. _He’s lying,_ they whispered _. They know you're a failure and they want to lock you up_. Peter didn’t believe every word they said, but he knew what the signified. He was broken. Irreparably, irredeemably, completely _broken_ , and there was nothing anyone could do about it. The closer he got to the team now, the more it would hurt when they couldn't fix him, and Peter was big on limiting collateral damage. He backed away, shaking his head.

“I’m sorry, Clint. I- I can’t-“ tears choked his throat, and he swallowed hard, voice breaking, “tell Tony I’m sorry, and the team.”

Clint eyed the way he was stepping closer to the edge of the roof with caution, pulse picking up as he tried to calculate whether he’d be able to catch the kid again if he fell. Forcing his gaze back to Peter’s face, he held out his hands, taking half a step forwards.

“Tell them yourself, kid.”

Peter choked out a strangled laugh, the backs of his legs bumping into the rooftop ledge behind him.

“Maybe next time.” With that he stepped backwards, free-falling towards the ground for a handful of heart-stopping seconds before he twisted to shoot a web at the building next to them. Clint ran towards the place he’d disappeared, jumping onto the narrow ledge just in time to see him swing away. Tony was going to kill him.

Clint watched him go wordlessly, absently massaging the spot on his side where he’d slammed into the wall a couple of days ago, pulling his phone out his pocket.

Tony picked up on the first ring.

“This better be good news Legolas.”

“We have to talk.” Clint heard his chair scrape backwards.

“Where is he? What happened?”

****

Tony was waiting for Clint when he arrived back at the tower, pacing back and forth in the lobby, hands anxiously twisting together. When he saw the archer push open the glass doors, he half-jogged to his side, jaw set.

“I thought you were going to get the kid.” He hadn't meant for the words to come out quite so accusatory, but Clint had sounded so grim over the phone he had no idea what to expect from talking to the man. Clint looked at him wearily, heading towards the elevators.

“This needs to be a private conversation.” Tony nodded tersely, stepping in next to him and ordering FRIDAY to take them to his suite. The tension was so thick in the air between them Tony could have taken a bite out of it. Not that he’d had any appetite for days now.

Clint followed Tony into his lab, waiting until the door had closed behind them before leaning heavily against a desktop.

“So I talked to Peter. Briefly, before he pulled a Tarzan on me. He needs help Tony.” A muscle jumped in Tony’s jaw, and he bit back a sarcastic ‘no shit’; right now Clint was the only person Peter had let get close in days. His face clearly betrayed him though, and Clint smiled wryly, no real humour in the expression.

“I know, it’s obvious to anyone with eyes, but it’s more than that. He’s not just sick, I think he might be a real risk to himself.” Tony’s expression stayed impassive, but his mind was suddenly whirring at a hundred miles a minute. It was evident by now that the kid was doing badly, but the idea that he might actually lose him somehow had barely crossed his mind; he hadn't even let himself seriously entertain the notion.

“What do you mean, Clint?” The archer sighed heavily, reluctant to break Peter’s trust, not quite trusting Tony not to flip out on both of them. He paused for long enough to make Tony’s bruised heart skip a beat.

“It’s bad, Tony,” he settled on, trying to convey his urgency without giving too much away, “you can’t just leave him and hope it gets better anymore.” Tony’s brows shot up, and he took an outraged step backwards, opening his mouth to protest. Clint cut him off.

“Don’t. I know he told you to back off. But people as sick as Peter - you can’t just leave them alone when they tell you to. That’s how they end up dead.”

The words hung in the air between them for a beat of silence, and Tony stared at him wordlessly, face grey as ash.

“You think he’s going to…” He couldn't even finish the sentence, swallowing hard and glancing around wildly for a brief moment, looking as lost as Clint had ever seen him. Then something hardened in his eyes and he nodded grimly, expression once again unreadable as he snapped into action.

“FRIDAY? Get me Peter’s location right now. Let’s suit up.”

****

Peter stopped by his apartment long enough to stow his suit (and KAREN’s inconvenient safety protocols), and to pick up the dusty bottle of vodka that had sat on Aunt May’s cabinet ever since it had been joke-gifted to her by a friend three christmases ago. He’d thought for a long time about what he wanted to do next. He wasn't sure that he really wanted to die; he certainly didn’t believe in a cushy afterlife the way May had, and the black finality of ceasing to live _forever_ still made him uneasy. But he couldn't keep living the way he had been. For one thing, his body wouldn't take any more. Even walking across the road left him winded, and his brittle bones were showing the strain - he guessed he’d picked up at least a few micro-fractures during his last shift, and his wrists and shins ached so fiercely he could barely hobble. Not to mention the hundreds of cuts and bruises that had stopped healing altogether a few days ago. Living just _hurt_ , and more than physically. He was tired all the time, and his psyche felt like a billion pieces of shattered glass, tearing his mind to shreds. He’d even almost burst into tears the last time a would-be burglar cussed him out, and that wasn’t a good look for one of Earth’s mightiest heroes. 

Eventually he’d concluded that perhaps it was time to give Spiderman up. Give up the Avengers, the heroics, New York, life. He couldn't recover and he wasn't a hero and he was dying anyway, he could feel it. He figured he might as well let chance take a few pot-shots at him; right now he was as fragile as any other teenager, more so even, yet still blessed with abilities that gave him easy access to every dangerous place in the city. Why shouldn't he just fucking get drunk for once?

He headed for the docks again, sticking to the shadows to dodge the all-too-easily-hacked-by-Tony system of cameras that watched Manhattan. It was a slow, painful journey; his legs trembled and more than once his head span so fiercely he had to sit straight on the pavement to get it to stop.

Now he sat at the far end of the boat terminal with his spindly legs dangling over the choppy grey water below him, gazing across New York Harbour. Wind whipped unhealthy colour into his pale cheeks; the day was unseasonably cool, and he felt his lack of insulation especially acutely. The half bottle of vodka he’d already downed was definitely helping though, and for once he was glad his _condition_ had offset his advanced metabolism - it certainly made it easier to get drunk.

He wondered briefly if Tony - or any of the Avengers - would look for him. The trackers in the suit would lead them to his apartment, but once they’d reclaimed that expensive piece of kit, what good was Peter Parker? It would be better for everyone involved if he disappeared today, as easy as slipping under the quiet waves below. He took another long drag at the bottle, wincing a little as the liquid burnt its way down his throat, and swallowed hard. Regardless of whether or not they were searching, they wouldn't find him. Not in time. Disappearing wasn't a difficult feat in a city as anonymous as New York.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this update is so late!!! I just got back from holiday in Yorkshire with my family (camping, woo!) - so i couldn't really write. But I have my laptop again and I'm ready to go!!   
> Peter's been through a lot, and I think he might be ready to hit bottom pretty soon... 
> 
> Thanks for sticking with it so far - please do keep leaving kudos and comments, it really does make my day!!! <333


	7. Drifting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things come to a head for Peter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning - this chapter features a graphic-ish suicide attempt, depictions of drowning, is generally quite miserable - if this isn't your thing feel free to skip it and pick up next chapter, it should be relatively clear what happened, keep yourselves safe <3

The alcohol had disappeared quicker than he’d intended, and it was still dark out when Peter stumbled to his feet, the ground lurching nauseatingly beneath his feet as he looked around. He was briefly reminded of the time he and Ned had spent the day riding rollercoasters at a theme park; his bed had seemed to rock like a ship at sea afterwards, his body still trying to anticipate the momentum of the rides.

It wasn't a bad analogy, he thought with a wry, humourless smile. It felt like life was rushing onwards, and bit by bit he was being left behind. Well not anymore. It was time to get off this ride.

The decision felt freeing, like discarding layers of heavy armour, and he rolled his taught shoulders, breathing out a long sigh and shutting his eyes. The dark water below him reflected blurred, fractured images of the world above, streetlight smudges casting ripples of light across his face. He’d stopped feeling the cold about three quarters of the way through the bottle, shivers easing, and now the only mark left by the sub-zero night air was the blue tint to the base of his fingernails.

He shuffled forwards until he could feel the place where the dock dropped off beneath his feet. What was left of his spider-senses weakly warned him that the wintery water would drive the remaining heat from his body in a matter of moments; his already weak heart wouldn't keep up for long. There was no fear left in the knowledge though; only a soft kind of release. He’d thought. earlier, about leaving a note, but it suddenly felt like there were no words left to say; better to slip away unnoticed. He shrugged off his jacket and kicked away his shoes - better to let the cold work faster, not that it needed the help. Now, he thought about opening his eyes, taking one last look at the city he’d worked so hard to protect. Even the thought was unbearably heavy. Instead, he took one last deep breath and let himself tip forwards.

The cold punched the oxygen from his lungs in one blow, and Peter had to force himself to keep sinking. The vodka helped, muddying his mind enough that the primal urge to kick upwards was blunted, his muscles shuddering and useless as the weight of his sodden clothing tugged his rail-thin frame downwards. He felt his heart kick into overdrive, heard the beating stutter in his ears as the muscle strained to pump blood around a body that was shutting down.

A sharp pain in his chest suddenly made him take a reflexive breath inwards, and his lungs seared as ice water rushed into them. Instinctively his body forced him to choke, even as he sank deeper, trying desperately to spew out the invasive liquid and replace it with air, to no avail. His entire body heaved as it tried instinctively to hyperventilate, chest muscles contracting violently as more frigid water rushed down his throat.

Peter felt disconnected from the process, as if he was floating disembodied above himself, watching his body spasm. Suddenly forced back into himself, his eyes flew open as his brain began to beg for oxygen, and he had to will himself not to push upwards and struggle towards the orange of street lamps above. The water was murky, and deep enough that he couldn't see the bottom, and it tasted faintly of oil, so close to where ships made hundreds of journeys. Gradually, these coherent thoughts bled from his mind, and his body gradually stilled, drifting slowly with the waves.

****

“Peter Parker’s location is unknown, sir.” FRIDAY’s distinctive voice echoed above them as Tony stepped backwards into his most recent iteration of the Iron Man getup. The man paused, forehead scrunching.

“I’m sorry, what? Only, I thought I’d just heard the world’s most advanced, multi-million dollar artificial intelligence tell me it couldn't find a _schoolboy_ in a city filled with _cameras_.”

For an AI, FRIDAY’s tone was sharp when she replied.

“It is likely that Mr Parker is well aware of the position of cameras in the city, given his frequent patrols of it. Perhaps he does not want to be found.”

Tony swore, and Clint watched gravely as the visor of his suit snapped into place.

“Go, Tony,” he warned gravely, dread turning his stomach, “I’ll get the others and we’ll all look. Better to overreact and find him healthy than waste time and-”

Tony didn’t stick around to hear the end of the warning, breath already tight and panicky in his chest. He swallowed hard as the city rushed by below him, FRIDAY’s sensors working better than his own eyes could to scan the crowds for Peter’s familiar face.

“Boss, your heart rate is dangerously high.” Tony forced himself to exhale, all too aware of the way his pulse was pounding in his ears.

“Concentrate on finding Peter,” he snapped, ignoring the fact that it would be no challenge to the AI to monitor them both simultaneously. Wherever the kid was, he wasn't any where near the tower, and reluctantly Tony broadened his search, all too aware that the wider the area he had to search was the slimmer his chances were of catching the kid before he saw him coming and ducked out of sight.

The city blurred by beneath him as he flew over, heart skipping a beat any time he glimpsed an especially skinny teenager. He wanted to kick himself for letting this go on for so long; how obvious had it been that Peter was struggling? How could he have let this slide? If anything happened to the kid now, that was squarely on his shoulders.

Steve, Wanda and Vision were on a mission somewhere in deepest darkest Europe, and Thor was predictably off-planet, but all the rest of the Avengers had turned out to look for Peter, and before long Natasha’s voice sounded in his ear.

“Tony? Clint told us to sweep bridges and tall buildings for Parker. He didn’t tell us why, but… if that’s what you think is going down, you might want to try the docks as well. It’s a damn cold night for a dip.” Tony swore under his breath. Peter’s place wasn’t all that far from the docks. He was at the other end of the city.

“Thanks Nat - are you anywhere near there?”

“I’m on my way, but I won’t get there much before you. 3 minutes?” He could hear wind rushing past on the other end of the line, and swore again.

“I’ll race you.”

The strength of his own fear scared him.

“FRIDAY, 110% power to thrusters please.” The AI didn’t deign to reply, but he felt their speed increase enough that it was everything he could do to keep steering them straight, and the sonic boom they left in their wake set off car alarms. Tony wasn't big on deities, but he winged a prayer to whoever might be listening regardless. If they found Peter alive and well, he promised himself he’d find a way to settle the debt.

It felt like an age before the grey concrete of the docks came into view ahead of him, and he grudgingly let FRIDAY kill their speed, scanning the area urgently for heat signatures. His pulse jumped when he found one moving at breakneck speed, before a streak of red hair tipped him off.

Natasha let the motorbike skid to a stop as she saw Tony, and he joined her on the ground, feeling faintly sick.

“Tony. Any sign?” He pulled off his visor, suddenly claustrophobic in the suit, and shook his head, taking a shaky breath and casting an eye over the black water beside them.

“Nothing. FRIDAY, let me out of here.” He could feel a panic attack nudging the edges of his consciousness, and stepped out of the suit, taking deep breaths. The frigid air was grounding, if not comforting, and he looked around restlessly as Natasha picked her way around crates behind the warehouse.

They were in a relatively sheltered area, the water was still and calm below, and his nerves were stretched so taught he almost jumped at the sound of Nat kicking over a bottle.

“Tony, get over here.” Her voice was quiet and controlled, but something about the tone made Tony’s head snap up. She was stood behind the warehouse, staring at something on the ground that was blocked from his view by the tangle of crates surrounding her. Her expression was unreadable, and he broke into a run, suddenly as scared as he'd ever been in his life.

He stumbled to a halt a few steps away, already shaking his head as the objects came into view, hand covering his mouth. A ragged grey jacket lay discarded on the ground, next to possibly the tattiest pair of sneakers he’d ever seen, soles worn and muddied. The same shoes he’d practically begged Peter to at least let him re-lace less than a month ago now. He didn’t realise he was shaking until Natasha clasped a steadying hand on his shoulder, forcing him to meet her gaze.

“Tony, breathe. Are they his?” He nodded mutely, watching in growing horror as the assassin crouched, pressing a hand against the jacket. Her lips tightened almost imperceptibly, and she straightened. “Cold,” she explained, “it doesn't mean anything. They’d lose heat in seconds out here.” He met her gaze with wide eyes, cold with fear, before he turned to face the rippling water below them. Genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist, suddenly feeling like none of those labels meant a damn thing.

“Peter!!” Natasha’s shout was loud enough to scare several nesting seabirds, who circled above them crying indignantly. There was no answer to it. She turned back to him.

“You scanned for life forms?” Her voice was rushed with urgency, and he swallowed, starting to nod before pausing.

“Heat signatures…” They shared a heavy look. If Peter was in that water he wouldn't be giving off much of one of those. Before he had time to realise what he was doing, Tony found himself shrugging out of his own jacket, kicking his shoes to the side.

“Tony, wait, that water is freezing-” He didn’t hear the rest of the warning, taking a hard breath in and launching himself over the edge of the dock.

“Shit, shit, shit.” Natasha let out a stream of curses as the man disappeared beneath the rippling surface, kicking off her own shoes and pulling out her phone. Clint picked up on the first ring.

“Where are you? Did you find him?” Natasha cut him off.

“The docks. Get here right now, bring a medic.” She had time to hear him swear over the phone before she tossed the device to one side, taking a few short breaths and a quick run up before plunging into the icy water.

****

The cold wrapped around her chest like an iron band, and she felt a rare sense of gratitude for her baltic upbringing; she’d been trained to survive waters like this. Kicking stubbornly downwards, she forced her eyes open, squinting against the stinging combination of salt and mud. It was impossible to see further than a foot or so in front of her face though, and there was no way of telling how far down the sea bed would be. At least deep enough to accommodate the huge ships that frequented New York, which would push it to at least 20 feet.

Sudden movement caught her eye, and she vaguely recognised Tony’s outline moving jerkily through the water. She met him at the surface, gasping. The man was already shivering violently, skin alarmingly pale. It occurred to her that his heart health wasn't exactly 100 percent, which made this a dangerous mission for him. Not that she thought there was any chance he’d walk away empty handed now.

“See anything?” He shook his head, teeth chattering so hard he was almost unintelligible.

“Didn’t reach the bottom. Try again.” Before she could stop him, he’d taken a deep breath and ducked under again. She followed suit, keeping him in her sight as she kicked strongly downwards. It took around ten seconds for her to reach the bottom, and she cringed a little as her hands brushed through a thick layer of mud and slime. Tony reached the same spot a second later, and between them they spread out along the wall of the dock. Dread crept up Natasha’s throat as she felt her lungs constricting; she was out of air, and if she was, Tony definitely was, not that it had slowed him down. She grabbed his arm, pulling him roughly upwards and kicking off the bottom. To her alarm, the man’s swimming grew weak as they neared the surface, but she didn’t pause to check on him until she saw both their heads above the surface.

Tony choked, flailing wildly, and she grabbed for a ladder set into the wall, pulling them both to relative safety. They both gulped huge lungfuls of air, and Tony rubbed water out of his eyes, shaking his head as if to clear it. He’d stayed down too long, though Natasha knew now wasn't the time to berate him. After a handful of seconds, he had enough breath back to speak. “Sea’s going out.” She nodded tersely, all too aware that the more time that passed, the less chance they’d have of finding Peter, let alone reviving him.

Panting, Tony set his jaw and dived again, Natasha close on his heels. Once they reached the bottom they headed away from the wall this time, the ground sloping gently downwards out to sea. The light of the city overhead barely reached the water around them, and something like fear turned Natasha’s stomach. _Horrible fucking place to die_. She pushed the morbid thought away fiercely, and had to suppress a reflexive gasp and a dark shape suddenly crossed her field of vision.

Tony had seen it at the same time and reached it before she did, colliding with the figure at full speed before kicking desperately upwards. They’d been down too long again though, and his strokes were weakening. Hope surged in her chest as her fingers touched fabric, and she grasped a handful, unmistakably feeling her hand brush cold skin as she did so. Peter. He was limp as a corpse, drifting sickeningly in the light current, and she tugged them both upwards, chest burning. The surface seemed a long way away, and she was painfully aware that her muscles were beginning to seize up.

A cloud of bubbles exploded above them without warning as another dark figure hit the water and started towards them. She didn’t recognise him immediately, but he grabbed Peter around the waist and swum hard to the surface, and that was good enough for her. She kicked upwards feebly, barely conscious enough to compute that she wasn’t going to make it by herself. Glancing around, she caught sight of Tony, scarcely moving, and reached out towards him, vision darkening.

She had time to vaguely register another bubble explosion above them before her eyes drifted shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been so long since I last updated!! I've been super unwell and ended up in hospital for a while (not Covid, just bipolar lol), but I'm on the mend now! Thank you so much for your patience and your enthusiasm about this fic, rest assured it is definitely not going to be abandoned!! 
> 
> Thank you for all the kudos and comments, keep leaving them and I will reply when I'm well enough! Know that I adore you all.


	8. Noise and fury, signifying nothing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter is rescued by the Avengers - but that doesn't mean he's out of the woods

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TWs for drowning, anorexia, general angst and grimness 
> 
> This is (Still) a little heavy - as ever, put yourself and your own mental health first <3

Tony regained consciousness a split second after Natasha did, choking and flailing, spitting oily water and glancing about wildly. He was still submerged up to his neck, and the only thing that stopped him ducking under again was a solid arm around his chest. It took a moment for Bruce’s voice to reach him, and longer still for the words to make sense. 

“Tony! Tony, calm down, we’ve got you, Clint has Peter.” 

Peter. His mind sharpened immediately, and he stopped thrashing and began to tread water again. He couldn't have been unconscious for more than a few seconds, he realised. 

“Where?” he gasped out, limbs and lungs aching fiercely. Even as he asked the question, his gaze fixed on Clint. He’d reached the metal stairs at the side of the dock, a pale, thin form clutched to his side. Without waiting for an answer, Tony pushed away from Bruce and dived towards them, shoulders protesting as he fought through the water towards the pair. 

He reached them just in time to help Clint lift Peter’s prone form back up the side of the dock, trying not to wince at the feel of bone beneath the kid’s sopping clothes. They laid Peter as gently as they could on the concrete, and Tony bent forwards, pressing an ear to his chest. Nothing. 

Rocking back on his heels, Tony pressed a shaking hand to his mouth as he took a proper look at the kid. The way his clothes clung to his rail-thin frame only emphasised how emaciated he’d gotten in the last few months, flimsy t shirt doing nothing to hide the concave curve to his stomach, the shadows of his ribs visible right around his back. His skin was deathly white, and his lips had taken on a blue tinge. Clint pressed two fingers to the side of his neck, paling when no pulse jumped beneath the cold skin, and he met Tony’s desperate gaze with wide eyes, shaking his head. 

“Clint, call an ambulance. And doctor Cho.” Bruce skidded to his knees behind them, one arm around a still-coughing Natasha. He blanched for a moment as he looked at Peter, before the most-useful of his doctorates kicked in. 

“Tony, do you know CPR?” Tony nodded briefly, visibly swallowing as he laced his hands together and hovered over Peter’s chest. 

“He’s so thin, Bruce, I’m going to break his ribs.” Bruce’s face was creased in worry.

“Better that than the alternative. His ribs will heal.” Wrestling the fear from his face, Tony nodded curtly and pressed downwards in sharp, short motions, wincing as he felt the outline of the kid’s breastbone press into his palm. 

Clint handed Bruce the phone wordlessly, shifting to crouch by Natasha, drawing her close to his side. She was shivering violently, and he rubbed her arms absently as they watched Bruce and Tony crouch over the kid. Internally, Clint berated himself. If only he’d brought Peter in earlier, none of them would be here right now. The kid might have gotten help before things had gotten to this stage. Nat squeezed his hand, as if reading the thought as it crossed his mind. 

“Come on, kid, come back to us.” Tony’s voice shook as he kept up the CPR while Bruce spoke to the ambulance. Peter’s body remained still and cold beneath his hands, and he felt his breath catch in his throat, hot tears burning behind his eyes. 

Bruce tossed the phone to Clint and shifted to Tony’s side, getting ready to take over the chest compressions. They swapped places seamlessly, and Tony sat back heavily, dark spots fizzing across his vision. Alarmed, Clint clasped his shoulder, steadying him. 

“Tony, you okay?” The billionaire shook him off, shaking his head to clear it and leaning forwards again. 

“Bruce, how long do you think he was under?” Bruce shook his head distractedly without taking his eyes off Peter. 

“Hard to say. That water’s freezing; it could have been minutes, could have been hours.” Nausea rose up Tony’s throat and he swallowed convulsively. A sickening crack suddenly emanated from where Bruce was leant over Peter, and all four avengers flinched. Bruce’s hands barely faltered, though his expression creased and he swore under his breath. 

“I think that was a rib,” he said quietly, “his bones are more fragile than they should be.” It was more of an effort than he let on to keep his voice steady; a combination of the oily water he’d swallowed and his fear for Peter was making his head swim. Only concern for Tony had him keeping a lid on his own emotions. Tony shifted to his side and the pair swapped again, Bruce rocking back on his heels and shaking out his aching arms in silence. 

“Come on, kid,” Clint spoke up, taking a deep breath, “hang in there.” The horror of staring at Peter’s corpse-like form had yet to ease, and Tony could feel panic building in his chest, tenuously held back by adrenalin. He pressed harder, willing the kid back to life with his whole being. He’d never forgive himself if Peter died right now. More bones gave under the pressure and he choked back a sob. 

“Peter, please.” His voice was strangled, and Natasha wordlessly put a hand on his arm. 

“How long has it been?” she turned to Bruce, who glanced briefly at his watch. 

“Six minutes since we pulled him out.” Natasha pursed her lips, nodding, expression taught. With every minute that passed, their chances of resuscitating the kid dropped astronomically. Tony and Bruce swapped positions again, and sirens started up in the distance. 

Bruce worked in silence, methodically, his steady breathing in stark contrast to the shaky, panicked breaths Tony was trying unsuccessfully to suppress. 

Suddenly, the frail form beneath him convulsed violently, and Bruce shifted quickly to grab Peter and sit him forwards as he choked and wretched, spitting grey water onto the ground. His pale blue eyes were bloodshot and unfocused, and his breath rattled in his chest as he gasped in oxygen, coughing spasmodically and taking in great gulps of air. 

“Good boy, breathe Peter, deep breaths for me!” Tony scrambled to the kid’s other side, grasping his shoulder and helping Bruce lean the him forwards as he spewed water onto the concrete, keeping a firm hand on his back and feeling the kid’s chest heave irregularly. 

“Oh my God, thank God, Peter.” The relief that coursed through him was so palpable his muscles felt weak, and fresh tears pricked his eyes. The kid slumped forwards, eyes fluttering shut again, and Bruce cradled his head as they laid him backwards. Clint shrugged off his sopping jacket and balled it beneath Peter’s head, eyeing the cold tinge to his skin. The fact that the kid hadn't even started to shiver yet wasn't a good sign. 

Bruce was thinking the same thing, but the only item of clothing that hadn’t gotten a thorough soaking in the harbour was Peter’s own jacket, still lying abandoned beside them. He laid it over his shoulders and turned the kid’s chin to one side in case he decided to cough up any more water.   
Tony brushed a wet lock of hair off his forehead, listening to the kid’s wet breathing with a pained expression, before tapping his cheek gently. 

“Peter, stay with us.” Frowning, Bruce pressed two fingers to the pulse in his neck, struggling to keep the alarm off his face. Tony picked up on it anyway, scanning his friend’s face with scared eyes and pressing his own fingers to Peter’s wrist.

“What, what is it?” Bruce waited for him to figure it out for himself; the kid’s heart was racing way too fast in his chest, stuttering like a broken metronome. The strain of the evening’s events was proving more than his undernourished muscles could take. Tony bit his lip and glanced over his shoulder as the sirens drew closer, and the beginning of blue lights flashed at the mouth of the harbour. 

“Hang in there kid.” Clint caught the look that swapped between them and raised an eyebrow. 

“Anyone gonna fill us in?” Tiredly, Bruce ran a hand over his face. 

“His heart is failing. Plunging into icy water on a night like this could put anyone into cardiac arrest - and I’d guess Peter’s heart wasn't in the best condition to start with.” As if to prove a point, the weak pulse beneath his fingers disappeared for half a second and he tightened his grip reflexively, snapping his gaze back to Peter’s pale face before he felt it jump again. He saw his fear echoed on Tony’s face as the ambulance came into sight, speeding around obstacles in the alleyway at expert speed. 

The vehicle skidded to a halt, and something loosened in Bruce’s chest as two paramedics jumped out the back, a heavy set of equipment carried between them. Standing aside, he wrapped an arm around Tony’s shoulders and gently tugged him away to allow the paramedics better access. His medical degree technically made him the senior doctor on the scene, but it had been years since he’d practiced emergency medicine; he knew as well as they did that the best thing for Peter right now would be to get him to a hospital ASAP. 

“You two gave him CPR?” A male paramedic with cropped brown hair and laugh lines around his eyes glanced up at them as his colleague fitted an oxygen mask over Peter’s face. Tony watched wordlessly, feeling as helpless as he ever had. With a quick look at his friend, Bruce nodded. 

“We’re not sure how long he was in the water, but he was asystole for about 7 minutes once we got him out.” The paramedic’s face turned grim for a moment as he took this in, and he turned back to Peter to get a proper reading of his heart rate. 

“What’s his name?” For half a second Bruce wondered whether he should use a fake one, before deciding there was nothing about Peter’s tiny figure that could link him to his famous alter ego right now. 

“Peter.” The paramedic nodded, rubbing his knuckles against the kid’s bony chest to try and wake him up. 

“Peter, can you hear me?” His efforts drew no response, and his colleague stood and turned back to the ambulance to fetch a stretcher. Natasha wordlessly took Clint’s hand, feeling the man next to her trembling, fear or cold or exhaustion she couldn't tell. As they waited for the ECG machine to spit out its figures, the paramedic cast a troubled eye over the kid’s body, taking in the angular bones, and the scars lining his arms. 

“Does he have any preexisting medical conditions we should be aware of?” He asked delicately. Bruce sighed heavily, avoiding the querying gazes of Tony and Clint. He’d had a brief spell as a psychiatrist in a previous life, and though he avoided casual diagnosis nowadays, there was no quicker way to explain what was up with Peter than by giving it a label. 

“Anorexia,” he explained shortly, “among other things. We’ve been trying to get him help but…” he gestured wordlessly to their surroundings, and the other man nodded sympathetically. 

“It’s a git of a thing to treat, that. Let’s just focus on keeping him with us for now, you've done as much as anyone could have.” A beep from the heart monitor punctuated his words, and Bruce winced a little at the ECG reading that scrolled across the screen. The paramedic pursed his lips a little, and the relaxed tone to his voice suddenly sounded a little forced. 

“Alright, I think the best thing we can do now is just get him to a hospital as soon as possible.” His fellow paramedic arrived back to his side in a timely manner, stretcher in tow. The Avengers watched mutely as they carefully shifted Peter onto the board - the kid didn’t so much as stir - and wheeled him towards the ambulance. The sight of his corpse-like form disappearing into the back of the vehicle was strangely sickening, and Clint swallowed hard. Once we was settled, the friendly male paramedic turned back to the group clustered around the docks. 

“I’m afraid we’ve only got room for one of you in the back…” Tony stepped forwards before he even had a chance to finish his sentence, hand outstretched. 

“I’m Tony.” His face was pale but collected, jaw set. If the paramedic recognised the name, or for that matter any of the infamous group, he kept it to himself, though Bruce made a mental note to get him to sign an NDA later anyway. He took Tony’s hand and shook it, ignoring the way the man’s cold fingers trembled against his own.

“Joe. I’m sorry we’re meeting like this, Tony.” The two climbed into the back of the ambulance, Joe fussing around Peter, hooking him up to machines that Tony’s shell-shocked brain couldn't guess the function of. He sank into the hard plastic pull-out chair, only faintly aware that between him and Peter they were getting water everywhere. 

Reaching to close the doors, Joe turned to the remaining members of the Avengers. 

“We’re headed to New York Presbyterian, though that might change if he crashes on route. You got a way of contacting each other?” Mutely, Bruce pulled his waterlogged phone out his trouser pockets, shrugging. 

“Send JARVIS after us, he’ll get in touch.” Tony interjected without taking his eyes off Peter. Bruce nodded, mentally increasing the priority of getting the paramedics to sign NDAs. If he hadn’t guessed who they were yet, surely that was a dead giveaway. The man didn’t bat an eyelid though, nodding and pulling the doors to with a final farewell wave. 

The sound of the sirens starting up again was a jarring contrast to the quiet of the night, and the three remaining watched the ambulance pull away in heavy silence, until the only sound was once again water lapping gently against the dock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long time no update!! I'm not sure where I want to go with this pic from here (this isn't the end! I'm just considering several directions lol - if you have any ideas feel free to comment!) Thank you all so much for being so patient with this fic and for all your love and comments, I read and cherish every one of them (and will reply eventually!!) <33


	9. Waiting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Avengers wait for news

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all, thanks for sticking with me so far!! This chapter is a bit of a filler but it felt important - people don't bounce back from near-drownings like they do in the films!

Natasha was the first to break the silence, taking a deep breath to clear her head before turning to Bruce.

“You go and meet Tony. We’ll catch you.” He nodded shortly, clearly preoccupied, and she pressed the keys to the motorbike into his hand, pausing for a moment to touch his arm.

“You two saved his life. It’s up to Peter now.” He gave her a grateful smile, trying to make himself believe her words. In truth, he felt like he’d failed Peter a hundred different times over the last few months. He’d been a psychiatrist, for fuck’s sake, and yet he'd ignored the instinct telling him something serious was up for months. The scars he’d seen on Peter’s arms hadn't gotten there overnight; things might have come to a head in the last couple of weeks but the signs had been there for… he hated himself for not knowing how long.

Natasha waited for him to rev up the bike and speed off after the ambulance before she turned back to Clint, wide green eyes searching his face.

“Did you know?” Clint didn’t answer straight away, gaze fixed absently in the direction the ambulance had disappeared into. At length, he blew out a heavy sigh, shrugging as he turned to face her.

“I didn’t know it was… this bad.” Guilt was written all over his face as he thought back over the last couple of weeks. Surely, of anyone he’d known the most. Certainly he’d had the most opportunities to intervene. Natasha stayed quiet, waiting for him to continue. Clint turned away, looking out over the dark water of the docks. He knew better than most how heavily a secret could weigh on the soul, and he’d let Peter keep his for too long.

“He fainted, a little while ago, in the gym. I could tell he was in a bad way, but he begged me not to tell anyone. He seemed pretty desperate, I figured maybe he just needed a little space. I tried to keep an eye on him, but after that he was never at the tower…” His tone was anguished, and Natasha’s brows pulled upwards in surprise. Clint wasn’t the type to beat himself up like this.

“Don’t,” she said softly, “don’t do that to yourself. If what Bruce said just now is right…” she winced, shaking her head. “Anorexia is a… slippery thing to treat, Clint. Secrecy kind of comes with the territory. Peter’s a smart kid. If he was worried about you noticing anything, he would have kept his distance.”

Clint nodded reluctantly, massaging the back of his neck. He had the beginnings of a tension headache.

“You should have heard him earlier tonight, Nat. It was… tough to hear.” Tears threatened behind his eyes and he cleared his throat, squaring his jaw and looking away. Natasha squeezed his hand, giving him a moment to collect himself before she spoke.

“I can’t tell you it’s going to be okay, but he’s in the best hands now. You were there for him when it mattered Clint. None of the rest of us can say that much.”

****

Tony didn’t realise he’d started to shiver until a kind nurse draped a thick blanket over his shoulders, pressing a mug of coffee into his trembling hands.

They’d wheeled Peter away as soon as they’d reached the hospital, all urgency and alarmingly beeping machines. His numb brain had vaguely taken in the jargon the doctors and paramedics had exchanged in the handover, and he knew enough to realise Peter was in critical condition; his heart was still failing, and his body didn’t have the resources to fight off the hypothermia that had set in.

Thankfully, Dr Helen Cho had been waiting for them, and had expertly taken charge of the situation. It hadn’t occurred to Tony that having him sit, dripping wet - not even wearing his shoes, he belatedly realised - in a public New York hospital waiting room might raise some awkward questions. At any rate, she’d pulled some strings and now he sat in an empty conference room, shivering. 

“Thank you.” He said belatedly, stopping the nurse in the doorway. She gave him a warm smile.

“You’re freezing, pet, is someone bringing you some warm clothes?” The thought hadn’t even crossed his mind; it was only now he thought about it that he realised he was, as she’d said, freezing. He suspected it would have crossed Natasha’s though and nodded.

“Okay. Drink that, in the meantime. I _will_ admit you if you get hypothermia.” Her maternal tone drew half a smile to his lips and he sipped the coffee obediently, hugging the cup close to his chest. She nodded in satisfaction.

“I’ll go and see if there’s any news about that kid of yours.” His eyes widened and he nodded enthusiastically, not trusting himself to speak again. With a last slightly concerned look, she let herself out, footsteps echoing down the corridor outside.

Wherever they were keeping him, it was quieter than the rest of the hospital, and the lack of noise was jarring. Then again a part of him felt like it made sense: it felt like his world had stopped, why shouldn't everyone else’s?

The door swung open again moments later, starting him out of a reverie, and his heart picked up for a moment before he recognised Bruce’s familiar figure. He stood, setting the coffee aside, and Bruce pulled him into an instinctive hug.

Before his mind had time to catch up to his emotions, tears, held tenuously at bay for the last few hours, welled in Tony’s dark eyes. Bruce tightened his grip as he felt the man’s shoulders shake, forehead creasing. He knew that if he’d blamed himself for Peter’s state, Tony would be feeling a hundred times worse. He was practically the kid’s father.

“This wasn’t your fault,” he murmured into the man’s hair, “none of us saw this coming.” Tony shook his head and pulled away, dashing tears away roughly. His eyes were red-rimmed, and stood out starkly in contrast to his pale face.

“I promised May. Promised her, that I’d keep him safe.” His voice was gravelly with emotion, but surprisingly fierce regardless. Bruce watched him with sad eyes.

“Peter’s life was never going to be easy, Tony. Nothing you did or didn’t do could change that. He’s been through a lot.”He suspected Peter had been through more than either of them knew about, but felt it wise not to voice that suspicion right now.

Tony looked away, smiling humourlessly.

“He almost died today. He could still die.” his voice cracked on the last sentence, but he carried on regardless. “If it wasn’t for Clint I wouldn't even have found his body.” Tony’s face had gone so white Bruce half braced to catch him, in case he was about to pass out on him. Instead, his shoulders slumped, and he shook his head weakly.

“I can’t do this right now, Bruce. Please.” Against his better judgement, Bruce pursed his lips and nodded shortly, letting the subject drop.

Tony sank back into his seat, picking up the mug of coffee and handing it to his friend. Bruce’s clothes had dried out a little in the wind as he’d ridden over, but it was an unseasonably cold night, and he suddenly realised that, without the adrenalin that had kept him upright so far, he was exhausted. He took a grateful gulp before handing it back. Tony looked like he needed it more than he did.

****

Clint and Natasha joined them twenty minutes later, making suspiciously good time after swinging by the tower to pick up coffee and dry clothes. Bruce greeted them wearily.

“No news yet,” he cut off their questions before they could ask them, “last we heard he was still in resus.” His pragmatic tone was shot through with worry, and Clint could have sworn there was grey in his hair that hadn’t been there earlier. He nodded, sighing.

“How are you guys holding up?” Bruce smiled wanly though the concern didn’t leave his gaze, and his eyes flicked to Tony who sat, wordless, in a chair by the door.

“You know,” he hedged, “fine, just…” he trailed off, shrugging helplessly, and Clint squeezed his shoulder in understanding.

“At least get changed into something warm,” he said, handing over a bag of dry clothes, “no point all of us getting hypothermia.”

As Bruce ducked out the door, Natasha crouched in front of Tony, touching his arm lightly to draw him out of his own head. The man blinked for a second before his gaze sharpened and he looked around properly, as if surprised to see them. The famous one-track mind at work; if the person entering the room wasn’t a healthcare professional, he wasn’t interested.

“Tony, how're you doing?” She asked hesitantly, all too aware it was an inadequate question. Tony’s eyes had returned to the door.

“Fine,” he answered distractedly, “the nurse told us they're still working on getting his heart to work properly, so we haven't heard much yet. Dr Cho is with him, so…” he gave up halfway through the sentence, as if forming words was taking too much brainpower away from watching the door.

“You should get changed.” Natasha pressed the bag of clothes into his hand and he glanced down again in surprise that would have been comical in any other circumstances.

“I’m fine.” he answered mechanically, and she pursed her lips.

“I thought you’d say that. Two options, Tony: I stand in front of this door and intercept anyone coming towards it until you're wearing dry clothes, or you go get changed in the bathroom down the hall and I come and find you if anyone comes this way.” He finally looked at her properly and the expression on her face faintly reminded him that she’d been a merciless killer in another life. He decided not to argue.

“Thanks. I’ll.. go down the hall.” Natasha nodded in satisfaction.

“Don’t fall in, if you're longer than ten minutes I’ll come looking for you.”

****

Four hours passed before Dr Cho swung open the door, looking uncharacteristically tired and rumpled. The four avengers had been sat in tense silence, each lost in their own thoughts, but they all jumped to their feet expectantly as she entered the room.

“He’s alive,” she reassured them hastily, quietly worried about the pallor of some of the faces staring back at her, “but he’s not out of the woods.” Tony blew out a long breath, running a hand over his face, suddenly fighting tears again, blinking them away in exasperation. For someone who took pride in _never_ crying, he was having a damp night.

“Is he okay? Do you know how long he was in the water for?” Dr Cho met his anxious gaze steadily, acting out a calm she didn’t feel.

“I won’t sugarcoat it for you. His heart stopped three times while we were trying to warm him back up. He’s lucky to still be here.” Tony pressed a fist to his lips, swallowing back nausea at the intrusive picture of the kid - his kid - lying dead and cold on a table somewhere. Dr Cho continued.

“We’re still just working on keeping him stable right now. Based on the timeline you gave us, and the extent of his injuries and hypothermia, our best guess is that he was in the water for close to 45 minutes.”

Tony’s heart sank; he was no medic, but he knew there was only so long a person could go without oxygen for. He glanced at Bruce, half-hoping for reassurance, but the man’s face was grey and drawn.

“Jesus,” Clint breathed, “is he going to be okay?”

Dr Cho knew better than to give him a clear answer; she’d seen too many cases like Peter’s.

“We’ve put him into an induced coma to give him a chance to recover. As things are, his kidneys are heavily damaged, and he’s struggling to breathe on his own, so we’ve intubated him and put him on dialysis to be safe. I’m afraid we won’t know the extent to which the hypoxia has effected brain function for a few days yet.”

Clint swallowed, sinking back into his chair, trying to suppress the guilt that knotted his stomach. Just a handful of hours ago he’d had Peter within arm’s reach, alive, if not healthy. He felt Natasha squeeze his shoulder and covered her hand with his own in gratitude.

“Where is he now? Can we see him?” Tony spoke up, voice coming out choked as worry tightened his chest.

“In the ICU. He’s being monitored very closely at the moment to make sure his heart is keeping up okay as his temperature stabilises. We’ll know more about his condition in a few hours time, so provided his vitals stay okay you’ll be able to see him then.” Tony nodded tersely, leaning heavily against the table behind them.

Dr Cho cast a glance over the exhausted group opposite her, and her expression softened. She knew them all better than to suggest any of them go home and rest, but they looked ready to drop.

“I’ll get someone to bring you some coffee and blankets, you might be in for a long haul.” A frown crossed her face. “And did I hear that you _all_ went in the water after him?” Half a smile ghosted across Bruce’s face at her incredulous tone.

“Yeah… You’d think earth’s mightiest heroes could stage a better rescue than that, but…” he shrugged. They were used to saving strangers, none of them had ever really entertained the idea that they could lose one of their own. Dr Cho’s frown deepened.

“Any of you inhale or swallow any water, lose consciousness, have any trouble..?” Tony exchanged a quick look with Natasha and they both shook their heads, faces the picture of responsibility. Bruce thought briefly about contradicting them before deciding against it; neither would thank him for it, and at any rate he was around to keep an eye on them.

“We’re okay.” He answered for them. The doctor eyed them doubtfully but nodded anyway.

“If any of you start feeling confused, disoriented, or start coughing a lot, holler, okay? I’ll be back to update you - and check on you - in an hour.” She directed this last at Bruce, all too aware that the others would sit on such symptoms until they collapsed. He nodded and she started back towards the door, pausing as she reached it and turning back to face them.

“I don’t know how he ended up in that water - all I can tell you is that he didn’t have a lot of fight left in him. He’s going to need a lot of support if he’s going to come through this.” Tony met her gaze with determination.

“We’re not going anywhere.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As ever I LOVE YOU ALL thank you so much for reading, commenting, liking, it means the world to me <3 I'll update ASAP!!!


	10. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter survived his suicide attempt, but the road to recovery is going to be a long one, and first he has to deal with the fallout

The first thing that struck Tony when he saw Peter was how small he looked. The hospital bed practically dwarfed his already fragile frame as he lay there, pale and still, swamped in blankets and wires. Close to ten hours had passed since they’d pulled him from the water and his lips were still faintly tinged with blue, testament to what a poor job his heart was doing at pumping blood around his body.

They were only allowed to visit one at a time at the moment, for the sake of allowing Peter’s doctor’s easy access to his bedside - Tony tried not to think about what kind of medical emergency would need Peter’s doctors to access him quickly - and of course, Tony had been the first to call dibs.

A soft whooshing noise filled the room, coming from metallic boxes set up by the bed. One machine was attached to thick tubes that wound their way down his nose and throat, forcing his chest to keep rising and falling. Two thin tubes snaked from the crook of Peter’s arm, pumping scarlet out of his body to be cleaned, and then filtering it back in. The hope was that Peter’s kidneys would eventually heal enough to be able to manage this in their own, but there was no calling that yet.

Tony’s gaze rested on the point on Peter’s arm where the wires were taped down, before dropping to the thick scars that marred his wrists. Unbelievable, really, that he hadn’t noticed. He couldn’t think of anything now that could possibly have been more important than the boy in front of him.

“I’m sorry kid.” He whispered, voice strangled, dark eyes flicking back to Peter’s white face, taking in the bruises beneath his eyes. He sat gingerly in the chair by the bed, leaning forwards and clasping his hands together.

“I dropped the ball. Big time. You needed help, and I didn’t…” He breathed out a shaky sigh, cleared his throat. “I didn’t know. And then I did know and I didn’t do anything, and I don’t know which of those is worse.” He swallowed thickly, glancing away. The wall above the bed had a very neutral painting of a ship at sea on it, and Tony wondered if anyone else had appreciated the irony of that yet. He looked back at Peter’s fragile form.

“I don’t know if you can hear me, but I promise things are going to get better. I promise. We’re gonna get you help, and you can stop living in that apartment with your Aunt’s ghost, and it’s going to be okay.” His voice cracked again and he took a deep breath, making no effort to brush away the tears that spilt down his cheeks.

“You just gotta stick around to see it. That’s all I’m asking. Just stay, Pete.”

****

Peter didn’t wake up for ten days. When he did, it was to a room that was unnervingly quiet. His Queens apartment looked out directly onto a main road, and even in the dead of night nothing was ever silent; cars rushed past, horns blaring, drunks shouted obscenities at each other, and the people who lived upstairs had a baby that hadn’t stopped crying for the last three years. Now, the only sound was a soft, steady beeping.

Confused, he opened his eyes, suddenly struck by the pervasive sense that he hadn't opened them in a long while. It took him a long time to focus, longer still to figure out where he could be. Everything was too white, too free of stuff for the room to have been lived in. In the end, it was the strong smell of disinfectant that gave it away. His eyes widened and he looked about wildly, taking in the machines, the wires, the empty coffee cups on the table opposite the bed he was lying on. There could be no doubt that he was in hospital, though how he got there remained a mystery, his thoughts still moving sluggishly through his head.

The door to the room swung open, interrupting his memory search, and Tony Stark almost dropped his coffee at the sight of Peter’s baby blues blinking back at him. Bruce, at his side, slipped it carefully out of his hands, setting the two drinks on the table before joining Tony at Peter’s side. To Peter’s shock, the billionaire’s face was creased with relief, and dark circles ringed his eyes. He looked uncharacteristically rumpled, as if he’d slept in the same clothes he was standing up in.

“Holy shit, kid, you really had to choose the three minutes we weren’t in the room to wake up?” Peter cocked his head, frowning in confusion, still trying to remember how he might have gotten here. His chest ached fiercely, his head throbbed, and his throat felt bone-dry, like he hadn't spoken in days. Not to mention he was hooked up to so many machines he felt a little like a pincushion. Understanding, and another emotion Peter couldn't identify, flicked across Bruce’s face.

“You remember anything about what happened?” Tony glanced sharply at Bruce, trying to catch his eye. _Right now_ wasn’t necessarily the best time for this conversation. Peter shook his head slowly, and Bruce nodded, trying for a reassuring smile that came out more like a grimace.

“That’s okay, that’s normal. You’re in hospital, Peter.” Peter’s brow furrowed, and he tried to raise his hand to brush a lock of hair out his eyes. He winced when he felt a tug at the crook of his elbow. Right, the wires. His eyes suddenly widened. He could see the place where the wires fed into his arm, which meant he could see his bare arm, which meant he wasn’t wearing long sleeves- He glanced back up at the two men opposite him, expecting disgust and shame, only to be met with compassion.

Tony’s gaze saddened at the kid’s panicked expression; whatever he’d said or done that meant that Peter expected him to react so badly to his scars, he regretted it bitterly.

“It’s okay, kid,” he said softly, “we know.” To his surprise, Peter’s eyes filled with tears.

“I’m sorry, Mister Stark - Tony - I didn’t mean to- It wasn’t supposed to get this bad- I-” He couldn't finish the sentence, couldn’t even look at the man. He was convinced Tony would never look at him the same way again, would always see him as weaker, and the thought was almost physically painful. He nearly jumped when, instead of recriminations, Tony sat on the bed by his side, reaching for his hand and brushing away the hair he’d been trying to get off his face earlier.

“You have _nothing_ to apologise for,” he stressed, tracing a faint scar on the kid’s hand with his thumb, “ _I’m_ sorry we didn’t notice earlier. We could have gotten you help a lot sooner.” Peter looked up at him with wide, tearful eyes.

“What? No! I don’t need help, this is all my fault-” Bruce was the one to interrupt him this time, coming round to the other side of the bed and putting a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“No, kid. You’re not well. You haven’t been well for a long time. This isn’t your fault.” Peter stared up at him, opening his mouth to speak again but breaking into a harsh dry cough. His throat ached, and Bruce hastily poured him a glass of water from a jug by the bed. He hesitated a moment before handing it to him.

“Sip this slowly, they only extubated you a couple of days ago, you need to get used to swallowing things again.” Peter nodded, taking the cup and sipping at it obediently. The artificial hospital lighting reflected off the top of the water, casting a shimmering pattern on the wall opposite, and suddenly Peter froze, cup half-raised, eyes fixed on the shifting reflected light.

Memory crashed over him like a wave, individual frames and pictures slamming together in his head, and he vaguely felt Tony slip the cup out of his hand.

“Pete, you with us?” The voice sounded like it was coming from far away, from underwater even, and suddenly he was back in that frigid harbour, water closing over his head like a blanket. He remembered downing vodka until he barely even felt the cold, staring into the depths, feeling the siren-call of the darkness that promised nothingness… he remembered the burn as liquid flooded his lungs, the white-hot pain in his chest as his heart cramped and gave up…

“Pete!”

A hand shaking his shoulder firmly brought him back to the present and he gasped in air like he was drowning all over again. His heart was beating fast enough to set off alarms, and Tony leant forwards to catch his eye, voice strained with fear.

“Peter, deep breaths, you’re okay, you’re safe here.” A woman in a long white coat hurried into the room, disapproval written all over her face. She leant over the monitors for half a moment before coming to crouch by Peter’s bedside, Bruce stepping away to let her pass.

“Peter, I’m Dr Cho.” Her voice was steady and soothing, and Peter glanced at her, chest still tight and painful. “I need you to breathe deeply, okay? You’re alright, this is a panic attack. Your heart and lungs are fine. Breathe with me, okay?” Peter nodded, face as pale as when they’d pulled him from the water, and Tony felt faintly nauseous at the memory. Gradually though, his breathing slowed, and Dr Cho gave him a warm smile.

“Good, that’s great, Peter.” She waited another moment until he’d calmed down before straightening, shooting a querying look at Tony. He took care to angle himself out of the kid’s line of sight before shrugging, and her brow creased. Bruce, however, was fixated on the still-shimmering patch of light cast by the glass of water, heart sinking. He let out a slow sigh before turning back to the still-trembling teenager.

“Peter,” he said gently, voice uncharacteristically shaky, “did you remember what happened?”

Understanding filtered across Tony’s face, and he squeezed Peter’s hand tighter, for once utterly speechless. There were simply no words for the depths of devastation the past two weeks had put him through, and much as he hated it, for all the thought he’d given it in the last ten days, the ability to comfort Peter in this moment eluded him. The kid himself was still close to tears, and dread twisted like a vice in his chest at the words. He realised the hand Tony was holding was clenched tight as a vice, and when he prized his fingers away, pale half crescents were marked on the older man’s hand.

“I remember.” He whispered, pushing his face into his hands. Bruce looked helplessly at Tony, and catching the glance that passed between them, Dr Cho stepped up.

“You didn’t do anything wrong, Peter.” Her voice was gentle, but firm and steady, as if she were talking to a startled animal. “No one here blames you for anything. We just want to help you.” Peter was already shaking his head.

“Leave me alone.” He murmured, voice muffled as he kept his head lowered to his palms. Tony looked back at Bruce, stricken.

“Kid…” Peter cut him off, choking back a sob.

“Please. I just need… a minute. Please.” His voice was so broken that Tony’s heart ached, but he stood all the same. Dr Cho nodded, inclining her head at the other two adults in the room.

‘Give him some space’, she mouthed at them, and Bruce nodded back, running a hand through his hair and heading for the door. When he reached Tony, he touched his arm lightly. The man was reluctant to leave, but even more loathe to cause Peter any more pain. Torn, the two paused in the doorway, and Helen Cho joined them, smiling sadly.

“This isn’t uncommon,” she said, voice lowered, “Peter will need some time to come to terms with what happened. I imagine he’s feeling an awful lot right now. He can’t do himself any harm in this room, I promise.” Tony nodded reluctantly, taking one last, lingering look at Peter’s hunched form before pursing his lips and turning on his heel. After a beat, Bruce followed, shooting Dr Cho a grateful smile.

****

Only once they’d all left did Peter sit up again, removing his head from his hands. His cheeks felt hot and puffy, and his vision was blurred with a heady mixture of exhaustion and tears. He took a sharp, shaky breath and rested his head against the headboard behind him, staring at the ceiling. What he’d done - what he’d tried to do - it was unforgivable. _He’d tried to kill himself_. The words felt alien in his mind, unbelievable, even. He’d seen suicides as Spiderman, had attended scenes moments too late, arrived only in time to find a body, watched as the act destroyed families and communities, and still Peter Parker had gone down the same dark route. Worse still, he couldn’t even bring himself to regret it yet. The only regret in his mind, seared into his skull like a hot iron, was the fact that he’d failed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been a while again! Don't worry, this fic will never be abandoned, I'm just job hunting and it straight up sucks y'all, from your fave depressed postgraduate: stay in education as long as you physically can <3 
> 
> I love you all so much, please keep reading, commenting, leaving kudos, know that it makes my whole world every time xxxxx


	11. Breathing Lessons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter and Natasha have a much needed heart to heart

It was the silence, strangely enough, that took the most getting used to. Tony found that Peter’s tiny frame, the scars on his wrists, under all that he could almost convince himself he still had the same old Peter around. The silence, though - that was jarring. As long as he’d know Peter, the problem had always been trying to get him to shut up; he’d found with some amusement that the kid seemed to narrate every thought that passed through his damn head. He was a pathologically open book. Or, he had been.

It wasn’t that the kid didn’t speak at all now; he would answer most questions put to him, even make small talk about the weather, or whatever small noteworthy things had happened in the hospital that day. In fact, their stilted conversations only ran into real difficulty if he tried to bring up what had happened, or any of the events leading up to it.

It was more the absence of spontaneity that was throwing Tony off. Previously he’d been able to count on Peter to comment on even the most inane details of his life; if he wore a new shirt, or changed the coffee he drank in the mornings, the kid would have something to say about it.

Now, though, he spoke only when spoken to, and sometimes not even then. Whenever he, Tony, ventured a handful of words, Peter always looked up with an absent, half-surprised look on his face, like he’d forgotten he was there at all. It was unnerving, and truth be told it scared Tony far more than any of the troubling stats and vitals the doctors reeled off their monitors.

Physically, Peter was making only an extremely slow recovery, if it could be called that at all. His lungs, kidneys and heart were still in poor shape, and Peter was still hooked up to the dialysis machine. Months of starvation had taken as much of a toll as his near-drowning, and his persistent refusal to eat wasn’t exactly helping matters. Mealtimes were an ordeal that even the battle-hardened Avengers dreaded. They’d established a rota early on when Peter’s doctors had made it clear that Peter could either eat now or be tube fed later; none of them wanted him put through yet another trauma. They’d decided to take turns sitting with him at mealtimes, unwilling to overwhelm him with four people watching him eat at a time, but they all felt the lack of moral support keenly when the stakes were as high as Peter’s life.

Peter himself was as unhappy with the arrangement as anyone, but he felt utterly powerless to resist the voices in his head that clamoured for him to keep restricting. ‘ _I’m too tired_ ’, he wanted to shout when they watched him with their worried eyes, urging him to take just one more bite, ‘ _let me die in peace_ ’.

There was, of course, no chance of this as long as the likes of Tony, Clint, Bruce and Natasha were around. Peter noted slightly ruefully that even the blinds on the windows had special short cords, in case he got the urge to hang himself from them he supposed. It seemed the depths of irony to him that just weeks ago they’d been fine with him running around dressed in a spider costume taking on hardened criminals, and now he wasn’t so much as trusted with window blinds.

It felt like he was living a bleak, checkmated existence; he was too carefully watched to continue to lose weight, or to die altogether, and yet too painfully stubborn to get any better. He guessed something would give eventually, and guiltily hoped it would be a major organ.

****

To his discomfort, it was less than two weeks before Natasha seemed to be wise to this strategy. She was on the dinner rota, and Peter had watched the sky outside darken with no urge to turn his room light on. Natasha blinked in the doorway for a moment as her eyes adjusted to the dark before focusing on the diminished figure sat in the bed. Peter was still deemed too weak to be allowed up and about, and a pang of sadness shot through her chest at the pitiful sight of him.

“Sat in the dark, huh?” She flipped the light on without waiting for an answer, and Peter winced at the sudden illumination. Drawing up a chair, Nat gave him a sympathetic smile.

“Where’s Tony?” It was unusual to catch Peter without his ever-present mentor, who’d happily passed his every other responsibility to Pepper and practically moved into the hospital. It took Peter’s tired brain a moment to process the question, and still longer to remember the answer. An uncharacteristically petulant expression flicked across his face when he did.

“Talking to some doctors. I think there’s a meeting about whether or not to tube-feed me. Not that I was invited.” Natasha only nodded, getting the sense that if she stayed quiet the kid would continue. As usual, her intuition proved accurate.

“It feels like no-one cares about what I want. Even Tony. All they talk about is whatever stupid new treatment they’re going to try next.” He felt the childishness of the complaint even as the words passed his lips, and half-tried to defuse the statement with humour. “I feel like they’re going to cure the Spiderman right out of me.” Natasha didn’t laugh.

“What _do_ you want, Peter?” This brought him up short. ‘ _To die_ ’, was the truthful answer, but he couldn't exactly say that. Something about her open, steady gaze made him answer more honestly than he would have with anyone else though.

“I want it all to stop.” His voice was quiet, and he suddenly felt tears burn behind his eyes and looked away, blinking fiercely. Natasha’s expression didn’t change, but she leant forwards to catch his eye again.

“What do you mean by that?” She kept her voice level despite the alarm bells ringing in her head, but Peter swallowed hard, shaking his head.

“Nothing.” She waited a moment to see if he would elaborate, and when he didn’t she sighed, leaning back in her chair.

“Didn’t sound like nothing.” A flare of the anger Peter had been keeping in check surfaced.

“What do you want me to say? I want the doctors to leave me alone, and I want to leave this stupid bed and I wish you’d never pulled me out the fucking water!” Natasha stayed silent during the outburst, and when he’d finished she nodded seriously, brows pulling together.

“I know.”

The tears that had been threatening spilt down Peter’s cheeks, but he paid no heed to them. Now that the dam had burst, all of the frustration and pain of the last few months poured out.

“Everyone keeps talking about me getting better, and how good things will be, but I don’t want to get better! I don’t want to recover and move on! I want to die, I wish I’d died, I wish I was dead.” At this last he burst into great, heaving sobs that shook his entire frail form and Natasha felt her heart ache in her chest. She stood, shifting to sit on the bed beside him and drawing him towards her. He leant his head against her shoulder as he cried and she wrapped her arms around him, resting her chin on his head.

“I know,” she said again, softly, “I know.”

He wasn’t sure how long they sat there for until he finally felt cried out, but at length he took a deep breath and leant away. Natasha let him go, though she remained sat on the bed, crossing her legs under herself and shifting to face him better. His whole chest felt hollowed out, but somehow lighter than it had been, and he offered her a shaky but genuine smile. She smiled back.

“Better?” He nodded a little sheepishly, glancing away.

“Sorry. I’m just tired.” Natasha shook her head.

“You have nothing to be sorry for Peter. The things you're dealing with… they're breathtakingly difficult. Of course you’re tired.” She bit her lip, wary about triggering his defences again but aware she couldn’t let him get away with brushing his words under the carpet again. “But… the things you were saying - that’s not just tired, Peter. Feeling suicidal is nothing to be ashamed of.” He stiffened a little at this last, but said nothing. His heart picked up a little though; he couldn’t help but wonder what Natasha would say to the others. She seemed to read this in his tense posture though.

“I’m not going to run and tell Tony anything you say, if that’s what you’re worried about.” She said casually, a little saddened to see his shoulders relax a fraction.

“I thought you had to tell someone if I say I want to kill myself.” He felt a little mean for testing her, but after all he’d been through trust didn’t come that easily to him. Natasha hesitated. She didn’t want to break the kid’s confidentiality, but if she was truthful with herself, they weren't far outside of territory where she would have to.

“Do you have a plan?” She asked plainly, deciding honesty was the best policy. It was Peter’s turn to hesitate, and she clarified. “Besides waiting for your body to give up?” He laughed humourlessly. He’d almost forgotten that it was literally Natasha’s job to be perceptive, it shouldn’t surprise him so much that she had been.

“I guess not, except.. that.” She nodded, none of the judgement he’d expected on her face.

“Then no, I don’t have to tell anyone. And if I did, it wouldn’t have to be Tony, you know.” She added gently. He met her eye guiltily.

“It’s not that I don’t trust him,” he said quickly, “he just… I don’t want to upset him…”

“Peter, I understand.” Natasha interjected, and he gave her a grateful look, running a hand over his face. His eyes hurt from crying, and he was suddenly weary, right down to his bones.

“I just feel like… like I keep waiting for things to get better, and they just… don’t.” He swallowed thickly, taking a short, sharp breath. “I’ve been living for other people as long as I can remember, and that’s been… fine… but I just can’t do it anymore.” Natasha watched him choke the words out with sad eyes.

“It sounds like it’s been a long time since your life felt meaningful. And I don’t mean meaningful in the sense of Spiderman saving people. I mean the things that make life bearable for _you_. Big and small.” Peter nodded, letting out a shaky sigh.

“That’s about right. Life is unbearable.” He delivered this last line with a wry smile, a humourless laugh, but Natasha didn’t smile back. Instead, she held his gaze, expression as sober as he’d seen it.

“That’s an awful way to live, Peter.” She said quietly. He looked away, unable to hold her eye. After a pause though, he nodded slowly. It felt alien to allow someone - anyone - to see him so vulnerable, to let them get close enough to get a glimpse beneath the tough exterior he crafted so carefully. But it wasn’t wholly unpleasant either.

“I don’t know what to do.” He murmured candidly, absently massaging an old shoulder injury. “I feel like a houseplant in a winter draught. The world’s too cold for me. I don’t stand a chance.” He hated the self-pitying tone he’d lapsed into, but he couldn’t help it either; some small, hidden part of him had realised he needed help, and he was suddenly scared that Natasha would leave and nothing would change. Natasha didn’t get annoyed with him, or tell him to snap out of it though. Nor did she fall for his attempt to laugh the comment off a moment later.

“The world can be a cold place,” she acknowledged gently, “and my guess is that you’ve seen more of that cold than most people. That doesn't make you weak. If it did, I can tell you for a fact none of the Avengers would still be around by now. Needing help isn’t shameful.”

Peter glanced up in surprise, face openly querying, and Natasha smiled ruefully.

“You think Tony didn’t stick Bruce in therapy once he’d realised how miserable he’d been? Hell, hasn’t Tony ever mentioned _his_ therapist to you?” Now that Peter thought about it, that did ring a bell, but he vaguely remembered thinking the man had been joking. Natasha rolled her eyes at his expression, and Peter found the normality of the expression strangely comforting.

“Jesus, for a bright kid…” She shook her head, sighing and giving him a fond look. “We love you, kid. Spiderman or not. We need you around.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long time no see folks!! Thank you all SO MUCH for hanging in there with this one, I love and appreciate you all so much. As ever pls do keep liking/commenting, you know it makes my whole day <333333


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